


the song is you

by cinnabonrollouis



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: All of the Avengers and Howling Commandos are all cis female, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Genderswap, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Torture, and except Peggy :/ who is a cis male, especially swearing and terms of endearment, except Sam! who is Non-Binary and uses They/Them pronouns, if there is anything i did not tag you feel i should please let me know and i will fix it!!, im so sorry about it but i needed it for the het, lots of irish, there is one lesbophobic slur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-22 04:06:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7419133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnabonrollouis/pseuds/cinnabonrollouis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stevie's throat closed over, so she clenched both of her fists and grit her teeth. She swallowed the sob ripping its nails down her throat and shut her eyes. <em>She's dead,</em> leathcheann. <em>She's dead, and you're alone.</em> Stevie scolded herself. <em>Buck up, punk. Time to buck the</em> foc <em>up.</em></p><p>***</p><p>Bucky closed her eyes and prayed that when she opened them they would be in Brooklyn again, that this hellish war would be over, that Steve would fit perfectly against her again, that Bucky could keep her safe.</p><p>They weren't, it wasn't, Steve didn't, and Bucky couldn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was a labor of love that would not exist without a lot of different people. First off, Bucky, I heart-emoji the h*ck out of you, thank you for being my shoulder to whine on and my personal cheerleader. Within the same vein, the platonic love of my life, Brendan, thank you for pushing me to be a better writer and spraying me with water when I'm being lazy, and for making the beautiful art to help get this fic off the ground. You have no idea how much it means to me. (Also look, I actually added links to the fic!!! I'm a real writer!!!). Thank you also to all the lovelies in the Marvel/One Direction/Cars gc, y'all are messy and you make my days brighter one terrible bee movie meme at a time.
> 
> You can also find me on my mess™ of a Stucky/One Direction [tumblr](http://buckylouie.tumblr.com/).
> 
> The title is my favorite Frank Sinatra song; [The Song is You](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/franksinatra/thesongisyou.html)
> 
> [Here](https://open.spotify.com/user/shansthoma07/playlist/1w1GfhKjmUQLy2H3WgzCCN) is the playlist I listened to while I wrote the fic. Enjoy!

 2016

_“They’re writing songs of love—but not for me.”_

Stevie took in a big breath when she hit the punching bag again, watching it swing away from her.

_“A lucky star’s above—but not for me.”_

She hit it twice more in quick succession and relished in the sweat that stung her eyes, the smell of heat that drowned out the pounding in her temples.

_“I was a fool to fall—and get this way.”_

She sucked her mouth guard back against her teeth and adjusted her stance, making sure her arms were in their proper defensive position.

_“Hi ho alas and also lackaday.”_

She hit the bag again, harder.

_“Although I can't dismiss, the memory of her kiss…”_

Again. Harder. Again. _Harder._

 _Crack!_ “ _Damnú_! Ow, _foc_.” She winced and stretched out her fingers, feeling the tightness and pain in her second finger. She hissed over the low swell from the jazz music, unwrapping the white tape from her knuckles. A bright purple bruise billowed from between two of her fingers. _Definitely a fracture._

Stevie huffed out a breath and haltingly untaped her other hand, trying to keep the fingers of her other hand together so the bones would heal correctly. Once her hand stopped hurting, Stevie walked over to her water bottle and picked up the towel wrapped around it, mopping the sweat of her face, pulling the guard out from between her teeth, and taking a long pull from the bottle. She breathed deeply for a few more minutes, closing her eyes tightly.

“Captain Rogers?” asked a voice. Stevie looked up, blinking like she was just waking up.

“Yes, Jarvis? What is it?”

“Ms. Stark is looking for you, and I did not think you wanted her to find you here.”

Stevie nodded to herself, sighing. “Thank you, Jarvis. Can you please tell her I’ll be up soon?”

“Of course, Captain.” A pause. “Would you like me to turn off the mu—?”

“Yes.” Stevie said quickly, rubbing a hand over her face. “And please don’t save the history. Thank you, Jarvis.”

“Of course, Captain.”

1940

Stevie was curled close to the side of the couch when Bucky walked into the room.

It was hot. Their side of Brooklyn was roasting in a wave of heat that made looking at anything far away difficult because of the hazy lines sizzling off the blacktop. Stevie's dress was damp under her arms and in the small of her back, her thick blonde ringlets were laying heavy against her bird-like shoulders and she had the beginning of a hair-pin headache blossoming from her temples. Bucky was in her dress uniform, thick brown jacket and matching pants with an olive green button-up and tie and a brown leather belt that cinched in her tight waist. The brunette had to be sweltering in all that heavy fabric, but _damn_ did she look beautiful; cream skin and rose cheeks with blue eyes the color of the sun shining through broken ice.

“C’mon.”

“No.”

“C’moooooooooooon.”

“Not happenin’, jerk.”

Bucky stuck out her lip in a pout, “Come _on_ Steve I promise this one’ll be different, he’s real sweet! I told him I would have a date for his pal, just at least for a dance or two! We go out with them for a bit, then we’ll ditch ‘em and swing by the fair! Just you and me.” Her eyes grew softer, sadder, “It’s my last night before I ship out, how can I live it up without _mo chailín is fearr?”_

The Irish is a low blow and Bucky knows it; she always played dirty to get what she wanted. Stevie looked away from Bucky, staring at her folded hands in her lap. Her heart beat a little faster in her chest, and she wrung her thin fingers, still smudged with dirt and grease from the dinner she had pulled together for Bucky after the brunette’s long shift down at the docks. Stevie closed her eyes, swallowing hard and turning to smile at Bucky.

“Alright, alright.” she faked a grin, “I can’t exactly welch on Sergeant Jane Barnes on her last night stateside now can I?” Her smile grew more genuine, “I’ve got your six. Don’t you worry, jerk.”

The skin around Bucky’s eyes crinkled as she smiled and she plopped down next to Stevie on their ratty, beaten-down couch. “Thanks, punk.” She said as she tossed a strong, warm arm around Stevie’s thin, weak shoulders. Bucky leaned her head on Stevie’s shoulder, and the blonde fought the urge to breathe in too much of her sweat-cigarette-vanilla perfume.

Stevie was going to lose this.

Part of her understood every bit of why Buck had to go, she knew that the war effort was important and that they needed every able-bodied woman they could get. Bucky would do well in the army. Stevie knew this.

But the other part of her, the low, dirty, selfish part of her that hid deep inside the back of her head and bloodied her fists against the walls of her heart and wailed for the smell of Luckies that permeated the walls of their apartment, that screamed for the low shuffling of feet on their floor after a late night out dancing, the part of her that fucking _begged_ on its _knees_ for the quiet sigh the body next to her made as it curled around her in the dark and whispered, _“C’mere, Steve. It’s cold and I ain't lettin’ you catch pneumonia again.”_

Stevie was losing her best friend.

But she could fake it for Bucky. She _would_ fake it for Bucky. She would smile, she would laugh, she would dance with another guy who would find her too short and too skinny to be worth anything to him, she would try not to be too jealous of the man that got to put his hands on Bucky’s waist, and the selfish part of her would carve its nails into her heart and howl like a wounded dog that _dia damnú you're mine, why can't you see that you're mine and I'm yours and I would do anything to be yours._

Stevie breathed in and choked the thought that this could be the last time she would feel Bucky’s warm body pressed against hers; might be the last time she smelled dock-water, cigarettes, sweat, and vanilla. Despite the 110 degree weather outside, Stevie’s shoulders suddenly shook with cold.

She closed her eyes.

 2016

Stevie pushed open the door to Antonia Stark’s office and was a little shocked at what she found.

All of the Avengers were there; Natasha was leaning up against one of the wall-sized windows, Clint was standing opposite her and fiddling with one of her hearing aids, Thor was sitting slightly on top of Stark’s desk picking at the mud caked on the hem of her skirt, Sam was pulling at their fingers anxiously, and Bruce was staring at Antonia, the latter of whom was standing in the center of the room.

Antonia smiled tightly, “Capsicle. About time. C’mon in.”

Stevie walked forward warily, self-consciously pulling her water bottle and towel closer to her chest. “What's going on, Antonia? Why is everyone here?”

Antonia crossed her arms, stretching the fabric of her slate-gray suit jacket across her lightly-tanned skin. She looked a little uncomfortable, shifting her weight between her tall, black heels and not meeting Stevie's eye. Then she dropped her arms and pulled on a mask Stevie had seen Antonia's  mother, Hannah, wear far too many times in front of visiting donors for the war effort ; she was trying to sell something she didn't believe in.

“We have a mission.” Antonia said, smile a touch too bright and hands on her hips, “A SHIELD search and rescue.”

Stevie nods, trying to keep the excitement out of her face. She's been waiting for a mission for weeks; her cabin fever and itch to fight no longer being satisfied daily runs and bouts with the punching bag in the gym. She just needs to do something. Needs to keep going, keep moving, stop thinking.

_“Thinking ain't eva’ gonna getcha anywhere Steves, it's all in the motion. All in the moves. C’mere, I'll show ya’ and then you and I will getcha the cutest beau on the dance-floor. Don't you worry.”_

Stevie swallowed and nodded thoughtfully.

“When do we leave?” She asked, already thinking of logistics. With Sam added to the team she'd have to rethink a few maneuvers, and she'd need to see plans of the facility, they can probably go over all that in the jet, though, the important thing was getting suited up and ready. Stevie continued to plan, but the look on Sam’s face cut through her focus; guilt was clearly displayed in those dark brown eyes.

“See…” Bruce said, stepping forward to place a hand on Antonia’s shoulder, “that's what we wanted to talk to you about, Stevie. We...we've already gone over the plans.”

Stevie was confused, “What do you mean? Should I just look over the schematics of what you were thinking and then we'll go from there? Or—”

 Antonia cut her off, “We don't think you should come. On the mission.” Her smirk turned acerbic, “Just because, well, every dog has her day, and your day _ended_ like—” Bruce smacked Antonia, cutting her off with a look.

Stevie went rigid, looking at everyone around the room. “Why?” She asked quietly, “What have I done? Is it—” she swallowed, hard, “Does someone else want to run point? Because I would understand, things are different and some of my plans can be a little old fash—”At that Sam can't seem to control themselves, and they walk over to stand in front of Stevie, placing a hand on each of her shoulders.

“No. You haven't _done_ anything. This isn't a punishment. All the people in this room,” they gesture to the rest of the people on the room with one hand, “despite the way that was delivered,” they spared a second to glare at Antonia, who to her credit, didn't flinch, “ _care_ about you, and want what's best for you. We just think that you need a little bit of a break.”

Stevie looked at the floor, trying to make her voice as even as she could manage, “And you all decided this when? And why, because you _still_ haven't told me any reason as to why you're _forcing_ —” Sam raised a hand, their voice soft and twinged with regret, “You haven't slept a full night in weeks. You only eat when someone reminds you or everyone around you is already eating. You haven't come to any of the VA meetings, or talked to anyone, even me.” Their eyes softened, “You're depressed.” They cleared their throat, “We've been pretending you were okay because we love you so much and we wanted to believe that if you needed us you'd come but…” They looked at the floor, “You haven't.”

Thor nodded thoughtfully, her long blonde locks bouncing gently. “It is not any fault of yours, my dear friend. Many a warrior struggles with returning to life at home after they have been in battle; your difficulty is an even larger burden to bear, and it is understandable that you would buckle under its weight from time to time. We, as a team, need to care for each other. You are in the most need of caring at the moment, so we gathered to try not to try and come up with a solution, but maybe to offer some comfort.” She stood and sauntered over, her footsteps landing heavily on the stone floors. She gently removed Sam’s hand from Stevie’s shoulder and tried to wrap her in a hug, but Stevie stepped away, looking over to Natasha with hard eyes.

“You agreed with this?” She asked angrily, “Going behind my back? Making decisions for me? What happened to not wanting to be controlled?” Nat looked at the ground and clenched her jaw, her eyes narrowed to slits. “We have a right to be worried.” She said through gritted teeth, “You don't _talk_ to us. Maybe if you have some time off, you can, I don't know, get—”

“What Natasha? Get what? What can doing _nothing_ achieve?” Stevie started breathing harder, her chest heaving as she fought back the urge to shout, “A big group of people decided to nothing 70 years ago and _six_ _million_ people _died_. What if I had done nothing back then? I would've starved and frozen to death in that _shitty_ apartment, _weak, sick,_ and _alone_ while _she_ was half a fucking _world_ awa—” Stevie stopped, words catching and choking her, causing her hand to fly to her throat, dropping her water bottle and towel as she struggled to breathe. Sam reached back to put a hand between Stevie's shoulders, pushing to help Stevie bend at the waist. “You're okay, Stevie. You're having a panic attack, you can breathe, you're not choking, you're alright. Just relax, try to take in slow, deep breaths,” they said calmly, pulling Stevie to sit on the floor with her head between her knees. The other Avengers expressions changed from different versions of pinched and guilty to frantic, everyone moving toward where Sam is hunched over Stevie, still gasping like a fish out of water.

It took a while, but eventually Stevie's breaths came easier, the vice on her throat loosened and she could think clearly enough to straighten up. The team was huddled near her; Sam rubbing her back in slow circles, Thor crouching behind them, her blonde eyebrows pulled together in concern, Bruce and Antonia discussing something quietly just behind her, and Nat leaning on Clint's shoulder, the skin around her frowning mouth pinched tight.

Sam looked right at Stevie and pulled their hand forward to squeeze her shoulder, “How're you doing? Better?” Stevie shrugged Sam’s hand off and pushed herself off the ground. Her sweaty clothes were sticking to her; the dampness against her skin making her shiver.

“I'm fine.” She said firmly, looking around the room and making eye-contact with each person until they looked away shamefully, one by one. “I'm going to go take a shower. I would hate for this _old dog_ to stink up this here fancy office. I'll leave you to plan your _mission_.” She reached down to grab her water bottle and towel, which had rolled a little away from her. Then she turned to Antonia, whose shocked face was a mirror image of her mother’s, and clicked her heels together in a salute, derisively raising her hand to Antonia the way she would have to Hannah all those years ago in her workshop. “Ma’am.” She said acerbically.

Then she spun on a dime and walked out of the room, slamming the door so hard a crack webbed its way across the wood.

Sam put their face in their hands and shuddered, Thor squeezed their shoulder comfortingly even though she looked pretty miserable herself. Nat curled farther into Clint’s embrace, and Bruce sighed, pushing her glasses up to rub at the spots where they sat on her slight nose.

“Well that could have gone better.” Antonia said.

***

Stevie stalked into her apartment and locked the door behind her. She tossed the empty water bottle into the sink without stopping and reached her bedroom, stripping off her sweaty clothes and balling them up with her towel to toss into her laundry hamper.

She stomped into her bathroom naked, reaching into her shower to turn on the water and then grabbing a towel from the linen closet. She tossed the towel at the floor in from of the shower and stepped inside, shutting the door behind her.

She flinched under the cold water and wrapped her arms around her upper body, leaning against the wall and closing her eyes.

“Jarvis?” She called without opening her eyes.

“Yes, Captain?”

“Can you, um, play the—”

“Radio Hits of the 30’s 40’s Pandora Sta—”

“Yes.” She cut the AI off, “Yes, please. And don't—”

“Save the history?”

Stevie took a deep breath and leaned her head against the wall. “Yes. Thank you, Jarvis.”

The piano softly drifting through the apartment and the female singer’s voice floating above the sound of the water hitting the shower wall was like a punch to the gut.

_“Embrace me, my sweet embraceable you.”_

Stevie gasped, her entire body curling inward and falling down until her knees hit the shower floor.

_“Embrace me, you irreplaceable you.”_

Stevie banged her fist against the wall repeatedly, the water from the shower-head flowing over her face and burning her eyes.

_“When I look at you, my heart grew tipsy in me.”_

She choked on the water, so she instead of crouching, she curled up on the ground in a ball and pressed her face to her thighs.

_“You and you alone bring out the gypsy in me.”_

_“I love all the many charms about you.”_

Stevie curled even tighter, the muscles in her back and shoulders clenching as she fought off tears.

_“Above all, I want my arms about you.”_

_“Don't be a naughty baby, come to Mama, come to Mama do.”_

Stevie gasped again, and then began hyperventilating as the tears she had been holding back rushed down her face.

_“My sweet, embraceable, you.”_

1939

“I told ya, Buck, I can't dance! I just can't!” Stevie walked away from Bucky’s outstretched hands to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair to clumsily plop into. Bucky walked over to her, ignoring the swell of big band coming from the radio on their window. Bucky’d swiped it from the dumpster of a rich lady's few days ago, and Stevie had spent the every hour she wasn't bundled up in bed drawing for the magazine job she'd gotten tinkering with the radio until it picked up a signal. She'd been so excited to show it to Bucky when she got in from work, and the brunette had made every second worth it; hugging Stevie real hard and smiling so wide her face was close to splitting.

That had been three hours ago, while Bucky was cleaning up from a day of lifting boxes at the local pharmacy and Stevie started dinner for the both of them. After they had eaten Bucky had turned the radio to a local station, insisting that Stevie dance with her.

“Ya gotta practice! And you ain't bad, you've just got some kinda complex ‘bout it—”

“What kinda fella would wanna dance with me anyway? Little, short stick of a thing who can't lead for _cac_.” Stevie reached across the table for her beer, taking a long pull of the sweet brew and placing it back on the table. “No fella wants a wife who looks like me. They want strong girls, girls who'll take care of ‘em. And I'm,” she sighed, “I'm me.”

Bucky crouched in front of her to meet Stevie's eye-level. Bucky put a hand on each one of Stevie's shoulders and looked her right in the face. “ _Foc_ ‘em.” She said firmly, her face serious, “You're fine the exact way you are. Down to every knobbly bone in your body. If they can't see how wonderful you are, _mo chailín_ ,” she shook Stevie by the shoulders to make sure she was paying attention, “then you don't need ‘em. Because they don't deserve you. You deserve the world, Steve. You deserve someone who can give you the whole damn world.” She gently cuffed the underside of Stevie's chin, “So buck up.” She said, sarcastically bright with a saucy smile on her face.

“Buck up?” Stevie asked, the beginning of a smile on her face, “How’s about you shut the _foc_ up and teach me The Big Apple ‘afore I go to the dance hall on my own, _ceann cac_.” Bucky grinned wolfishly and pulled Stevie out of her kitchen chair and back to the big empty space of their living room.

She left Stevie standing in the middle of the room, and walked over to turn up the volume because Bucky knew, even if Stevie wouldn’t say it, that she couldn't hear the music in her bad ear unless it's all the way up.  Bucky was wearing her light blue and white striped dress with the ¾ length puffed sleeves, and it swished over her crinoline as she skipped across the room. The dress was a few years out of style, but Stevie biasedly preferred it over the skin-tight dresses and jackets rich ladies wore nowadays. Bucky looked beautiful, her dark brown curls pinned up and close to her head, her strong legs, naked without hose, peeping out from behind the hem of the dress and trailing down to her sweet, little feet; bare and dirty because they were alone in their apartment. She was like a living work of art, always in motion and dancing to quiet music in her head; Stevie would never stop being enchanted by her.

The music, now that Stevie could hear it, seemed to be a slower song. Bucky walked back over to Stevie apologetically with her arms held out wide. “I think the Big Apple will have to wait, punk. But how's a good ol’ fashioned slow number sound?” Her grin turned soft and fond when Stevie placed her hands in Bucky's outstretched ones.

Stevie started to sway with Bucky awkwardly, trying to keep a respectful distance between their chests. Bucky scoffed and yanked her forward so that they were slotted real close together. From this angle, Stevie's head was level with Bucky's shoulder, so she gently leaned her cheek against Bucky’s collarbone. Bucky made a quiet, surprised noise and pressed her cheek against Stevie's. Stevie breathed in deeply and felt like every muscle in her tiny body, always working so hard just to do a quarter of what any able-bodied woman could do, relaxed.

The pair swayed with the music that drifted softly through the apartment, a woman crooning happily over the sounds of the city below.

_“My sweet, embraceable, you…”_

 2016

Three days later, Stevie's left leg bounced impatiently as she finished the skyline sketch she had been working on all afternoon.

They were supposed to be back yesterday.

 _Probably didn't have a plan in place_ , the mean part of her quipped. _Hannah Stark didn't plan unless she was already a cornered animal, why would her_ muc-i gceannas _daughter be any different?_

 _“She's too smart for her own good, that Hannah. But_ damnú _did she make you a swell shield, Stevie.”_

Stevie shuddered and turned back to her skyline. 

The sketch was actually turning out pretty well, considering Stevie apparently hadn't drawn in over 70 years. Sam had bought her the pencils months ago, and the day after her forced leave of absence Stevie had gone out and treated herself to a brand new sketchbook; after all she had all this money for a reason, what was the point if she didn't spend a little bit of it? Stevie continued to sketch for another hour before she heard what she had been waiting for all day.

“Captain?”

 _Finally,_ she thought. “Yes, Jarvis?”

“Ms. Stark and the other Avengers have arrived in the jet. They all seem to have only sustained minor injuries.”

Stevie let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. She was so relieved they were alright, no matter how angry she was with them. “How's Sam? They look alright?”

“Mx. Wilson looks very well; tired, but well.”

Stevie nodded. “Thank you, Jarvis.”

“Of course, Captain. Would you like me to tell Mx. Wilson you are awake?”

“No thank you, Jarvis. If they ask, I've already gone to bed.”

“Of course, Captain. Goodnight, Captain.”

Stevie rubbed a hand over her face, the weariness she felt down to her bones having very little to do with how long she had slept the night before. “Goodnight, Jarvis.”

She moved the sketchbook onto the coffee table with the pencil she had been using still perched on it, that way if Sam decided to come up to her apartment, they would find it properly ‘lived in’, with dishes in the sink (that Stevie had eaten one or two meals off of when she remembered), books opened here and there (where Stevie had tried to read to pass time and gotten bored and left them wherever she had been sitting), and now her sketchpad open with a half-finished work on the front cover.

Stevie dragged herself into her bedroom, stripping down to her underwear and pulling on a long t-shirt from her pajamas drawer. Stevie got under her covers and curled up on her side, staring at the wall in front of her.

***

Antonia Stark was complaining loudly to her girlfriend about the fixes she would have to make to the suit.

“I mean, look at what that monster did to my baby! Don't they understand how much _time_ this is going to take? Time away from my other projects. Time away from _cool new upgrades._ Bruce. Bruuuuuuuce. You aren't listening to me.”

Bruce Banner stood in front of the sink in her’s and Tony’s shared bathroom and rubbed her temples. Her eyes were still a little too green for her liking, and Tony's whinging wasn't making it any easier for her to swallow the lingering anger thundering in her veins.

“Hey.” Tony said, coming up behind Bruce and rubbing her shoulders, “You feeling ok, Greenie? Any boo-boos I can kiss better?” Bruce snorted, but leaned into Tony's touch, which actually helped the last bit of HULK SMASH to fade from her brain. As soon as she felt up to it she turned around to face Tony, wrapping her arms around her waist and pulling her close.

Tony kissed her on the lips, just once, and smiled. Not the saucy smile she gave to the press, not the empty smile she gave to her staff, but a real smile full of warmth and love. Bruce considered herself blessed to be one of the few people who knew of that smile’s existence, and she would take the secret of it to the grave.

“I'm alright. The metal arm didn't do any damage to the Hulk, I would've felt it.” Bruce rubbed her thumb gently over the bruise on Tony's cheekbone and made a sympathetic noise when she winced.

The pair separated and continued getting ready for bed, changing and brushing teeth and the like, before they crawled into bed next to each other. Tony yawned, wiggling over to curl herself around Bruce.

“We definitely have to search for that arm in the database tomorrow, the technology has to have been recorded somewhere. It's too advanced.”

“You sure?” Bruce asked, “Whatever kind of warfare metal-arm has been involved in, it doesn't seem like the kind of stuff that people want other people to know about.”

“True.” Tony said, “But nerds like to brag. Believe me, someone had to have written _something_ about it. The more we know, the better prepared we’ll be. The team can't afford mistakes like today. We were totally blindsided, and that can't happen again.”

Bruce nodded sleepily, and then yawned herself. “Make sure you ask Natasha before you look it up, she might remember more than your computers.”

Tony narrowed her eyes. “My computers are all-knowing. Don't mock them.”

Bruce chuckled softy and picked up one of Tony's hands from where it was wrapped around her waist and brought it to her lips. “Go to sleep, Antonia.”

Tony leaned forward and pressed a kiss behind Bruce’s ear. “‘Night, babe.”

***

Stevie rolled out of bed and sat up on the edge of the mattress with her face in her hands. Then she stood up, pulled on some shorts, socks, and sneakers and went into her kitchen to fix herself a water bottle.

***

Clint swore when she saw the next wave of agents swarm down the stairs.

Not even _twenty minutes_ into the third mission the Avengers have been assigned since they forced one of the most talented battle strategists the world has ever known to retire, and it's all gone to shit. _Again_.

Clint unsheathed one of her daggers and put down two in quick succession, relieving the second of his gun and taking out four more after him. She then spared a glance to Nat across the room. The redhead was caught between several different agents, her body moving so quickly between blows that she was a blur of motion. Clint turned and drew her bow, shooting the armed ones and leaving the rest for Nat, who put them down quickly, then walked over to Clint.

“Tony.” Clint said over the comms, “Third level is cleared. You have eyes yet?”

Antonia swore over the sounds of air and metal meeting flesh. “Guess who's here. Coming towards you and Nat.”

“Aw, man.” Clint groaned, turning herself to the doorway, unsurprised when she saw her least favorite tall, dark, and terrifying filling the doorway. Their metal-armed friend stomped into the room, not even seeming to notice the bodies they stepped over, or _on_.

The metal-armed assassin, or The Winter Soldier as Nat cryptically referred to them, cracked their neck as they stared at Clint and Nat. They were dressed the same way they had been the last three times Clint had seen them; all-black tac gear, black mask from the cheekbones down, eyes ringed in black makeup, elbow length dark brown hair, cuttingly-empty blue eyes, and the chrome-plated prosthesis complete with a red star on the upper arm. Their body was obviously covered in knives, but they were also holding an automatic in their hands.

Clint put her hands up and tried to speak as cheerily as possible, “Hello! Long time no see! How's about we _not_ do what we always do and try and kill each other, and instead, Nat and I leave through that door! And you can do whatever you want!” She smiled at the assassin, whose blank stare remained eerily steady, “So? What do ya say?”

The Soldier said nothing, but instead began to raise the arm that held the gun. Before they could get it up halfway, Nat shot the metal hand, knocking the gun to the floor and giving her the opportunity to yank Clint by the hand and run past the assassin and up into the stairwell, locking the door behind them.

The pair sprinted upward and Clint yelled over the comms, “We locked tall, dark, and scary in the floor below us! Antonia Stark you better be fucking finished up there or _so_ _help_ _me_ —”

“I'm done!” Tony replied, “Go out to the roof, Jarvis landed the jet up there for us.” Clint nodded and she and Natasha began to run faster than they had been. They reached the roof a few minutes later, about to run on board when the sound of metal whistling through the air reached her hearing aid. Clint turned to see the Winter Soldier standing on the roof behind her and Nat, a knife in each hand and sprinting toward them.

Clint reached to pull back her bow, when it was suddenly kicked out of her hands, definitely breaking several fingers in her right hand. She swore and ducked away from the Soldier, pulling out a knife and trying to stab with it and being met with the metal arm as a block. Nat ran around to the back of the Soldier, trying to stab them in the neck, and got a kick to the stomach that sent her sprawling for her trouble. Both she and Nat continued to spar with the Soldier until suddenly, they froze. Nat and Clint stopped fighting when the Soldier did, and watched warily as the assassin backed away slowly before turning, running, and jumping off the edge of the roof. Nat and Clint took the opportunity for what it was, and sprinted into the jet, which took off as soon as they were inside.

Sam and Thor were slumped up in their seats at the conference table, and from the lack of pounding coming from Bruce's panic room down the hall, it was obvious she was tired also. Clint and Nat walked over to the table and threw themselves into adjacent chairs. Nat closed her eyes and braced her head against her hands, rubbing her temples.

Clint yanked out her hearing aids, placing them on the table in front of her, then leaned back in her chair, breathing deeply and staring at the ceiling, “Thanks for the help with our Russian friend. Not like Nat and I were almost dying out there or anything. No big deal.”

Sam sighed heavily and shook their head, looking above everyone to where their hologramed plan was still proudly displayed next to a shaky, full-body shot of the Winter Soldier Jarvis had found in the bowels of some kind of intelligence organization. Sam looked at the picture with open frustration and anger written across their face.

“I hate that guy,” they said.

***

“They're back, Captain”

Stevie sagged with relief, “Thank you for telling me, Jarvis”

“Of course, Captain. Goodnight, Captain”

“Goodnight, Jarvis.”

***

Stevie was tired of feeling sorry for herself.

It had been three months, 5 missions, since Stevie had suddenly found herself surrounded by hostile free-time. She had read 20 different novels, sketched her way through half of her book, filled up three canvases with boring, sedate landscapes that only people with perfectly balanced brains painted, had run so hard every day that she had passed out more than once, and had begun boxing so frequently that her hands had fractured multiple times. She was all hobby-ed out.

So what does an emotionally exhausted, geriatric super-soldier do when they're tired of sitting around banging their head against a wall? They go to see their geriatric best friend, apparently.

Stevie walked down the street towards Peggy's apartment, flowers in her one hand and the two wrapped sandwiches she had picked before she had gotten on the subway in the other with a smile on her face. This was a _healthy_ thing she was doing. Meeting up with friends, eating with friends, eating without being told to. _Foc_ Sam and Nat and their worrying. Stevie was fine. Stevie was _adjusting healthily._

She rung the doorbell on the front of the plain brownstone that had Peg’s name on it.

“Who is it?” A masculine voice asked.

“Stevie Rogers, Sir. I'm here to see Mr. Carter?” She answered.

“Oh! Of course, he told me you'd be coming. Wait just a sec, I'll buzz you up.”

“Thank you, sir.” Stevie replied politely, “Take your time.”

Not a moment later the door buzzed open, and Stevie stepped inside. She made her way up to Peggy’s floor by the steps and knocked lightly on the door. It opened to reveal a mid-size brunet with a sweet smile wearing a light blue scrub top and matching pants.

“Hello, Captain!” He said brightly, “Please come in! Here,” he took the flowers from her, “I'll take care of these.”  Stevie entered the apartment, which wasn't large but wasn't quite small either, and followed the young man who introduced himself as Chris, Peggy's daytime ‘companion’.

“He's having such a great day today, you have no idea, Captain. He's been so excited for you to come he insisted I dress him in his best.” The man walked into the kitchen, setting the flowers in the sink and then picking up a tray that was set with tea for two people, and extra plates for the sandwiches Stevie had brought.

“I'm real glad to hear he's doing well, and please, call me Stevie.” She said softly.

The man smiled at her, “Stevie, then.” He then turned and walked out of the kitchen carrying the tray, back through the living room off to a bedroom that must be Peggy's. “Just so you know,” Chris said when they were still out of earshot of the door, “Sometimes he gets a little confused, did they talk to you about that the last time you visited?”

The last time Stevie had visited had been three days after the attack on New York, after she had called him twice; once to tell him she was alive and a second time to make sure that he had been far enough from the destruction that his home wasn't one of the thousands destroyed. She had been high on the fact that she had lived through an alien attack, was still trying to adjust to a brand new century, and had been so _focáil_ overjoyed that Peggy was alive. He had seemed perfect, same sharp brown eyes and soft smile, same curly hair that time had turned from light chestnut to pale gray, same red silk tie knotted at his throat. He and Stevie had spent the first ten minutes crying and holding each other, and then the next four hours talking about everyone in Peggy's family since Stevie had crashed the Valkyrie. Peggy had complained about how his sons, Andrew and Steven, had set him up with day nurses to come over and help him out now and then, “I barely need them. Seems a pretty gratuitous waste of funds for me to have friends, but hey. What else is money good for?”

“No, not really. I haven't been over in, uh, some time.” She tried her best not to blush, and thankfully Chris didn't push.

“Well, just as a warning, he might ask the same questions a few times, or he might forget that you're here every now and then and he'll think you just arrived. If that happens, just calmly explain and he usually’ll pick up right where ever he left off. You can always give me a shout, though. I'll be right in the kitchen, or I might run down to do some laundry real quick. That ok?” He quirked an eyebrow and Stevie nodded.

“I think we'll be fine. He and I could use a little alone time.” She said softly. Chris smiled, nodded, and turned to walk through the bedroom door.

“Mr. Carter,” he called politely, “Your guest is here, and I brought some tea for you.”

Peggy was sitting in a recliner next to the window. He was wearing dress shoes and socks, khakis, an off-white button down, and—of course—a sharp burgundy necktie. His smile was bright as ever, but Stevie could see some tiredness around his intelligent brown eyes.

“My dear,” he said, reaching out a hand to Stevie, “please come in. It's been far too long.” Stevie smiled regretfully and nodded, walking forward to wrap his extended hand in her own and press a kiss to the back.

“How ya doin’, Pegs? I'm so sorry I haven't been down enough I just—” Peggy waved his other hand, smile unwaveringly bright.

“I don't need any excuses, my dear. I know how much you wanted to be here. Sit, sit.” He gestured to the chair opposite his, then turned to Chris, who was standing off to the side still holding the tray. “And, if you please Christopher, place that tray on the sill just there, Stevie will bring it over for me. Thank you, my boy.” Chris smiled and did as he was asked, exiting the room with a wave and an “I'll be right down the hall if you need anything!” And then finally, they were alone.

Stevie set the sandwich bag with the tea tray and sat down next to Pegs, scooting her chair over so that their knees were touching. Peggy smiled at him warmly, and opened his arms for a hug. Stevie pulled him close as gently as she could, breathing in the scent of Armani and aftershave. Stevie shut her eyes and held him for a while; if she could forget the past six months, this could be 1944.

Eventually she pulled back and helped Peggy get settled in his chair. “Now then.” He said, pursing his lips, “Why don’t you cut me a sandwich and get me my tea, and you can tell me all about this retirement nonsense.”

***

Stevie left the apartment six hours later, feeling lighter than she could ever remember being.

***

“Are you fucking _kidding_ me?” Tony said when she saw the Soldier’s boot pop through the window of the office she was trying her best to hack into. “I'm getting _really_ tired of this.”

***

Sam ducked to avoid the Soldier’s metal fist, gleaming menacingly in the light and aimed directly at their face. They rolled away, jumping to their feet and hitting the button that deployed their wings before sprinting in the opposite direction from the Soldier. Sam was right about to rocket off the roof when they felt someone grab their one of their wings, using it to propel them upward and over until the smashed into the ground, separated from their left wing. Sam swallowed the blood in their mouth and rolled away from the black combat boots headed in their direction.

“Tony!” They called as they scrambled to their feet and began defending themselves from the Soldier, who was throwing punches right and left, “Are you nearby? Because I could use a little—” they felt a hand suddenly snatch them off the roof and into the air.

“About time.” Sam grumbled to Tony, who rocketed them away.

***

 “What else? What else do we know about this freakshow that we can use against them?” Tony asked, leaning against the conference table.

“The arm. Maybe we could find a way to disable it?” Bruce said.

Tony clapped her hands together, “Good. Yes. I like that. Any thoughts on that?”

“The Soldier doesn't need both hands for a gun.” Nat said derisively, “And besides, I bet you anything the arm was built to withstand an atomic bomb, a little electrical short circuit or something wouldn't phase a highly trained assassin with a higher than average tolerance for pain.”

Tony nodded, “Very true. Very good possibility. So, basically the group consensus is, whenever we see tall, dark, and ¼ metal; we're fucked.”

No one disagreed.

 1944

Stevie stared into the center of the fire in front of her and wished with every fiber of her being that she could get drunk.

The Howlies were gathered up behind her, toasting the mission they had coming up, taking shots and pouring one out for—

Stevie's throat closed over, so she clenched both of her fists and grit her teeth. She swallowed the sob ripping its nails down her throat and shut her eyes. _She's dead,_ leathcheann _. She's dead, and you're alone._ Stevie scolded herself. _Buck up, punk. Time to buck the_ foc _up._

The reality check helped, and soon she could breathe again. She stared harder into the fire, enjoying the ache the heat caused her eyes. She sat like that for a few minutes before she felt someone plop down next to her.

“You want something to drink, Cap?” Morita extended her open flask out to Stevie, who shook her head.

“Thanks, but I don't want you wastin’ that shit on me. Hooch isn't known for its taste as it is, ain't any good if it can't get you drunk neither.” Morita laughed softly, nodded, and took a swig out of it herself. She joined Stevie in staring into the fire, and thankfully was quiet but for her quiet little swallows every now and then.

Stevie drifted as she watched the flames, a soft melody she could only just hear playing in her head.

_“Again, this couldn't happen, again…”_

Stevie closed her eyes.

_“This is that, once in a lifetime…”_

She floated across the floor in the green lawn church dress, the last one Stevie's Daddy made before he died.

_“This is the thrill divine…”_

The boy she's dancing with is the same height as her, and he's good looking; strong chin and sweet eyes and a slick smile. He still doesn't hold a candle to her, who has the eyes of every person in the room.

_“What's more, this never happened, before…”_

Stevie is standing at the bar with her own date, a tall guy who had looked her up and down when they met and had had on a sourpuss all night since. Stevie pretends to listen her date, but she can't seem to tear her attention from that green lawn dress.

_“Though I have prayed for a lifetime,”_

Stevie knows that that green lawn dress has a whole in the left pocket. She knows that the seams have been taken in twice, at the waist and under the arm, and that the hem was let down three times. She knows because she's the one who did the sewing.

_“That such as you would only be mine…”_

Finally Stevie's date had had enough, and snapped his fingers in front of her face. “You could at least _pretend_ to be interested in me, you know!” He said in a sour voice. Stevie whipped around to look at him, her mouth opening and shutting without sound, “She’s not _yours,_ you know. She never was, and she never will be, you goddamn _dyke_ ,” then he stood, turning tail and sulking away from Stevie right out of the dance hall.

Stevie opened her eyes.

_She's not yours_

“Hey, Cap?” Morita slurred, “How's about we turn in. It's late.”

_“We'll have this moment forever…”_

Dum Dum said something to Morita, and Morita turned to ask Stevie a question. Stevie saw her mouth moving but couldn't hear the words.

_She never was._

“Cap? You ok?”

_“We'll have this moment forever…”_

“Stevie? Seriously, Cap, you okay? You're lookin’ a little gre—”

_She never will be._

_“But never, never again.”_

2016

Stevie woke soaked to the skin in sweat and threw up violently on the floor next to her bed. She sat there for a few minutes, catching her breath, and then gagged on the smell of her own vomit.

She bit on her pillow to muffle her sobs.

***

Sam found her in the gym.

They had been in the Tower permanently for a total of 21 hours; Stark had renovated one of the old office floors for them to live in, mostly because Sam was tired of couch-crashing and calling Washington home when they were never there anymore.

Stevie didn't look any better from the last time they'd seen her leaving the main kitchen yesterday morning; her hair was pulled back in a sloppy bun that was half-fallen out, she was wearing the same shorts she was wearing three days ago, and her shirt was so damp with sweat Sam could see every inch of defined muscle in her back. The gym was silent but for the sounds of Stevie breathing and her fists finding their mark.

Sam approached her slowly, the way you would a cornered animal, “Hey S—are you? _Are you punching the wall?_ ” She stopped, but she didn't turn around, “What the _hell_ is wrong with you? That's what the bags are for!”

Stevie stepped back from the wall, still with her back to Sam, unlaced her gloves with her teeth, and dropped them on the ground. Then she surged forward and continued to hit the wall, _bare-knuckled_. Chunks of cinder-block broke off and hit the floor. “Broke. Them. All.” She said between hits, and Sam finally realized that against the opposite wall there was a pile of split-open punching bags.

Sam took a deep breath. “You've been down here a long time, I thought you'd like to maybe get something to eat with me?” No response. “Stevie? Can you turn around and talk to me?” The blonde turned away from the wall slowly, and Sam got the full picture of her for the first time in a while.

She still looked the picture of health body-size wise, but not for lack of not-trying on Stevie's part; her skin looked sallow and thin, her cheekbones were sticking out a lot more than they had been a few weeks ago, and worst of all, the black rings under her eyes stood out so sharply that they looked like makeup. It was obvious she hadn't slept in quite some time.

“Why don't we go up to your apartment, yeah? I'll make some lunch and you can take a shower and change?” Stevie nodded minutely and walked over to pick up her empty water bottle from the bench near the door. Sam winced when they saw the condensation on the inside of the bottle; Stevie had to be pretty dehydrated.

The two walked up the stairs, Stevie in front and Sam behind, and when they reached her floor Stevie unlocked the door and went inside, heading straight for the bathroom without a word. Sam sighed, and went into the kitchen, peaking into the fridge. It was practically bare; the only things inside were half a loaf of bread, some eggs, and a few condiments.

Stevie walked out of her bedroom a half hour later, smelling clean and wearing a soft, cotton day-dress she had found on the floor of her closet. Her drying hair was hanging long and loose down her shoulders and she had brushed it out for the first time in a few days. Sam had made eggs and toast, all organized in a small stack on two plates; one with significantly more than the other. Stevie sat without looking at them and just began to eat, swallowing the scalding eggs and shoving toast into her mouth without really tasting any of it. Sam didn't say anything, just sat and watched that Stevie was eating as they ate their own share much slower, occasionally sipping from the mug of coffee they had out. Stevie took a sip from her own and grimaced at the taste; decaf.

Sam mis-read Stevie's face, “You want some sugar in that? Or cream?” Stevie shook her head. “Can't drink it any way but black. Sugar makes my teeth hurt.” Sam gave her a look, “Well, _you_ drink coffee out of a _helmet_ for four years and see how—” Sam put up their hands in surrender, “Alright Captain I-Need-A-Nap, no need to get snippy.” Stevie narrowed her eyes and went back to shoveling eggs into her mouth.

Sam tried to initiate conversation a few times, but after 15 minutes of only receiving nods or grunts as replies, they gave up. Stevie finished her plate first, stood up, walked to the sink, and began washing the plate and pot Sam had used to cook. When Sam was finished, Stevie held her hand out for their plate and she washed that too.

Sam sat at the table, watching Stevie sip from her mug and stare at the wall in front of her. “You gonna tell me why you've been in the gym for three days straight or are we just gonna keep sitting here?” Stevie didn't look away from the extremely interesting part of the wall she was focusing on. “I vote for keep sitting here. Seems to be doin’ fine so far.” She took another sip from the mug.

“Stevie.”

“Sam.”

“ _Stephanie.”_

_“Samwise.”_

Sam sighed, pinching the bridge of their nose between their fingers. “I swear to _God_ Stevie you're aging me by the second.” Stevie's mouth twisted sourly. “I can't sleep. And I don't see a point in laying in my bed, staring at the ceiling all night. So I go down the the gym and I box. Or I run. Or I jump rope. Sometimes it makes me tired enough to catch a few hours.” She cast her eyes to the floor, “Sometimes it doesn't.”

Sam nods, “We can do something about that, you know. They have sleep-aids you could take, doctor-prescribed ones, so you'd have to—”

“No thanks. If I wanna sit in an office and have someone tell me how _crazy_ and _senile_ I am, I'll go to see Antonia.”  

“No one thinks you're crazy or senile. We think you're depressed because you're grieving.” Stevie started at the last word and over looked at Sam, surprised. “Why do you think I'm grieving?”

Sam tried to sound as calm as possible, “Well, I talked to Natasha, and she told me the two of you talked a lot about people you had lost, people you may have even lov—” Stevie pushed her chair away from the table and stood up, walking to stand in front of her living room window.  “Sam, I think you should leave now. Thank you for lunch.”

“Stevie, you know there's nothing to be ashamed of, if you l—”  

“ _Leave._ ” Stevie said harshly. “Please, go. I will come up to have dinner with you at 5:00. Until then, if you don't mind, I'm going to try and get some sleep, so please. _Go_.”

Sam walked out of the apartment and shut the door behind them. As they were walking away towards the stairs, they could almost swear they heard sobbing coming from behind the closed door.

***

_She was never yours._

_She never will be._

***

Stevie didn't even have time to sit up completely before she puked. She threw the dress in the trash and shoved the sheets in the wash, curling up on her bare mattress naked and watched the sun set outside her window.

***

“New mission.” Tony said, slamming a stack of papers onto the conference table.

Bruce glanced up above the rim of her glasses, Thor paused from tossing Mjölnir up in the air, Nat and Clint stopped bickering about who had left more dishes in the sink, and Sam leaned over the table and grabbed the paper on top of the stack. Their eyebrows shot up as they read the paper.

“Tony. This plan—”

“Is genius, I know.”

“Tony, you're _insane_. We can't possibly—”

“Oh yes we can. I'm tired of getting our asses handed to us.”

Bruce smacked her hand on the table, “What plan?” She asked through gritted teeth, “ _What_ are you talking about?”

Sam silently handed her the paper, and turned to address the rest of them. “Antonia wants to kidnap the Winter Soldier.”

***

Stevie was pretending to read a book in her living room while she was slowly picking apart a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when she heard a knock at the door.

“Come in.” She called, turning the page even though she hadn't even read ¼ of it. Antonia walked in, wearing simple jeans and a short-sleeved shirt covered in grease stains, lit up blue over where the little circular reactor shone from between her breasts. She was barefoot, and if Stevie wasn’t mistaken; Antonia looked.  _Remorseful?_

“Hey, Cap.” She sat on the arm of the couch opposite Stevie's ottoman. Antonia's brown eyes looked gentle for the first time Stevie's had ever seen. “Would you mind if I asked you something?” Stevie shook her head, “I need—” she swallowed, “I need some help.”

***

“It's my life, Sam. _My life_. I make the choices, and I suffer the consequences. I need this.” Stevie pulled her hair out of her face and turned to look at her best friend. “I know it's not _healthy_ or whatever to need it, but I do. I need it. I _need_ to do something.”

Sam exhaled forcibly “I'm not against you needing to do something, I just don't necessarily think it needs to be this! You could be doing so many other things. You were doing great in the beginning of your break.”

Stevie laughed, loud and brassy and fake, “I was in _hell_. That whole first week, I was staring blankly at the inside of books counting to 60 then turning the page. I sketched 30 different versions of the same goddamn skyline because I don't have anything I _want_ to draw anymore. I—” she plopped down on the nearest chair and put her face in her hands. “I can't.” She said, the sound muffled behind her fingers.

Sam walked over to her and put a hand on her shoulder. “You can't what?” Stevie murmured something, but Sam couldn't hear through her hands. “Cmon. Hands off your face and tell me. What is it you can't do?”

Stevie sat up, “I can't do nothing. I can't. The last time I did nothing I watched her fall.” Stevie looked down at her hands, they were shaking. “And all the times I did nothing before that.” Sam waited, silently. “She was right there.” Stevie said softly, “So many times I could have said something. But I was too selfish, I didn't want to lose her. Had to have her however I could.” Her eyes closed, and she wrapped her arms around herself. “I could have told her, but I didn't. She died not—without—I didn't—” Stevie opened her eyes and she realized she was crying. “I didn't think about what I would do if I lost her; and then I did. It makes me sick just thinking about it. I can't sleep because every time I close my eyes I see her face turning blue while she freezes. I dream about the way it felt clinging to the side of that train listening to her screams fade off. It makes me wanna crash that ship all over again. Put the whole _goddamn_ thing into the ground and _sleep_ in the _fucking_ ice and never wake up. I just. I can't. I. I. I _fuck_ —” she gasped, sob ripping out of her throat as she folded forward, pressing her face into her knees.

Sam crouched in front of her and rubbed their hands up and down her back. The pair sat like that for a few minutes, before Stevie sat up, still shaking, scrubbed her hands over her face and stood up, walking away from Sam.

“Enough of this. I'm tired of crying.” She pulled in a shaky breath. “I'm going.” Stevie said, voice still thick with tears, “I'm going and you can't make me change my mind.” Sam shook their head.

“Well if I can't tell you not to go,” they walked over to the still sniffing Stevie, “the least I can do is be your wingman out there.” They poked Stevie in the side teasingly. “See. Wingman. Get it. _Wing_ man beca—”

“I get it.” Stevie said with an incredibly un-patriotic eye-roll.

“Alright Captain Asshole. I saw that un-patriotic eye-roll.”

Captain Asshole rolled her eyes again, but this time she smiled, raw and a little wet. “Shut up, Sam.”

***

The Asset stood on the roof, watching the Avengers from the compact surveillance device The Handler had given her. She watched them file out of their jet, trying to be covert as possible. She accounted for each member of the team.

Odinson, Thor.

Banner, Bruce.

Barton, Clint.

Stark, Antonia.

Romanov, Natasha

Wilson, Samwise.

…

Unknown.

The Asset paused the video feed and zoomed in on the new Avenger. She ran facial recognition software.

Rogers, Stephanie. Alias: Captain America.

The Asset paused.

Then she returned the surveillance device to the pouch next to her hip. Rogers, Stephanie just became her mission.

***

Stevie kicked the last agent in the gut, sending them sprawling and leaned up against a wall to catch her breath. “Tony, are you en route?”

Tony huffed over the comms link, “As much as I can be. Usually we're in a place and within five minutes they're on us. We just have to wait. Are you in place?”

Stevie looked around the room full of dead or incapacitated enemies, “Yeah, I'm good. Everyone else alright?”

“I am well!” Thor shouted.

“Clint and I are on target.” Nat said, voice raised over the sounds of bodies hitting the floor.

“I'm all good, Cap.” Sam said.

“SMASHING TINY MEN,” roared the Hulk.

“Excellent.” Stevie said, “Now I just gotta—” and there they were.

The Winter Soldier looked just as formidable as Tony had described. About the same height as Stevie with the same type of physical build, wrapped in black TAC gear, and sporting a— _good god—_ exact metal replica of an arm. The Soldier raised the gun in their left hand and began shooting.

***

The Asset blocked another blow from Rogers, Stephanie alias: Captain America and reached for one of her knives. The Captain was a good fighter, quick but powerful and very apt with the shield. Something the Asset would rectify. They continued to fight until the Asset finally placed a blow to completion and stabbed Captain America in the arm holding the shield. It clattered to the floor and the Asset kicked it away. The Asset hit Captain America again, knocking them backward.

Captain America surged forward, straddling the Asset, and repeatedly punched her in the face. The Asset’s arms were pressed underneath the Captain’s thighs, she flexed them but could not disengage the Captain’s hold; temporarily out of commission. The Captain continued landing blows at the Asset’s face until one hits the underside of her chin and knocked off her mask.

Captain America gasped, their bright blue eyes going wide. “Bucky?” They asked in a small, breathless voice. The Asset tried to move her arms again; still out of commission. Captain America unbuckled a strap from her chin and pulled off the helmet covering their head. It revealed the same face the Asset had seen on her surveillance device, long blonde hair surrounding pale skin flushed with exertion, a small dash of freckles sprinkled over a crooked nose. Captain America grabbed the Asset by the shoulders and shook her. “Bucky. It's me. Bucky it’s me, it's Stevie.” Captain America backed up and off of the Asset, crawling away from her. “Bucky, I'm. Bucky I'm so sorry. I didn't know—” the Asset’s arms were free.

The Asset got to her feet and reached for one of her knives. Captain America got to their feet also. “Bucky. You know me. Bucky, I'm your best friend, you _know_ me!” The Asset did not engage in speaking, but advanced on Captain America with the knife. Captain America dodged the knife and ran backwards, scooping up their shield.

“Buck, Please!”

The Asset froze.

_“Buck, please?”_

_“Buck, come on.”_

_“Buck, can we go?”_

The Asset shook her head and stabbed her knife at Stevie's face.

Stevie?

_Cognition Error._

The Asset screamed in frustration and continued to fight _Captain_ _America_ , who had stopped trying to exchange blows and was only barely defending herself.

“Bucky, please. It's Stevie!” She shouted when the Asset got close to her again, exposing her left.

“Who the _fuck_ is Bucky?” The Asset growled, sinking the blade into Captain America’s side. She gasped, and backed away from The Asset, tripping over debris and falling to the ground. The Asset stalked forward, scooping up a fallen gun and preparing to finish her mission.

She leveled the gun at Captain America’s head, right between those wet, baby-blue eyes. _Seen her cry way too many times,_ mo chailín _. Gonna give ‘er frown lines from being sad. I'd rough up the whole world so she could have a relaxed, worry-free face._

The Asset clutched a hand to the side of her head, digging her flesh fingers into her temple.

In the moment that the Asset looked away, Captain America touched her comms unit, “Sam! Now!” The window next to the Asset caved in, and Wilson, Samwise tackled her, shot something into her neck, and then the world went black.

 1943

“You get any sleep?”

Bucky turned toward the voice, and held back a flinch of surprise when she saw that it was still coming out of the body of a stranger. They had been back in camp for four days. Bucky had spent the first one-and-a-half barely conscious in the infirmary, then the past two and a half avoiding Steve. In her defense, it hadn't been that difficult; from the moment they had stumbled into camp _everyone_ had wanted to talk to Steve. “ _Can I have a moment, Captain?” “Could you look this over, Captain?” “We really need your approval, Captain, would you mind?”_ Bucky snorted; she wondered if all these _tóins_ would be quite so respectful if they remembered Steve the way Bucky had last seen her.

_It was daybreak. Bucky knew she had to get up soon. She hadn't slept a wink the night before, too buzzed off of hot dancing and good beer and the way that Clinger boy had looked at her when she told him she was heading West the next morning._

_“Well let me be the first to say thank you for your service to our country,” he had whispered demurely into the shell of Bucky’s ear. Bucky felt his lips on her neck and closed her eyes, wishing the hair she was running her fingers through was blonde and thin instead of black and curly._

_But in the barely-there sunlight that morning Bucky had laid her head on the pillow next to Steve’s and looked up and down her beautiful, delicate body; the gentle rise and fall of her pointed shoulders as she breathed, her long, thin fingers splayed out on her pillow next to her face, her perfect cupid’s bow mouth parted just a fraction so that little puffs of air could make their way out,_ mo chailín, tá mo chroí mise.

_Bucky quietly blessed the spring weather, thankful that she could wait a few more months before she had to worry about Steve catching cold and being wrung flat-out on this bed all alone while Bucky was—_

“Buck? Did ‘ya hear me?”

Bucky’s eyes focused back on Steve’s face, which was suddenly crouched in front of her. Bucky fought the instinct to back away from the too-tall, too-broad, too-muscular woman wearing her best girl’s face that was a foot away from her. Bucky looked straight into Steve’s tense and worried blue eyes and smiled crookedly.

“Sorry, Cap. Guess I was just daydreamin’,” she batted her eyelashes, “Forgive me?” Steve rolled her eyes and shoved Bucky back onto the cot she was sitting on. “Bundún!” They grappled childishly for a few minutes, Bucky unused to how strong Steve suddenly was, and ended up flat on her back.

Bucky sat up, haughtily brushing dirt off her shoulders and making a sarcastically snooty face. Steve laughed and pulled Bucky back onto the cot. The bed sagged under their combined weight.

“Jane B. Barnes, you sure are a _jerk._ ”

“Why Stephanie G. Rogers, you didn't really think a year and some in the _army_ was gonna make me _nicer_ , did ’ya, punk?” Bucky smiled again, saucily this time, but Steve didn't return the expression.

The blonde looked at the floor, big shoulders rounded meekly; like they didn't understand that they were three times the size they used to be and could straighten up if they wanted to. Bucky turned to look at Steve, trying to catch her eye, but the blonde wouldn't look up. Bucky waited.

“I thought you were dead.”

Bucky closed her eyes. _Jury’s still out on that one, punk._ “I'm fine, champ. Nurse looked me all over. Aside from a couple ‘a bruises and a scar or two, I'll be fine. He was a real _swell_ too, practically _swooned_ when I told ‘im my best friend was _the_ Captain America, I tell ‘ya Steve ya gotta—”

“Stop!” Steve shouted, jumping to her feet, her chest heaving, “Stop making this a joke! I thought you were fucking _dead_. The way you looked lying on that table I—” she paced, face getting redder and redder until Bucky stood and pulled Steve’s body to her own, wrapping her arms around as much of her mammoth best friend as she could.

Steve pressed her face into Bucky's collarbone, breathing raggedly while her hands shook where they clutched onto the back of Bucky's shirt. 

“It's okay.” Bucky murmured into Steve’s left ear. “I'm okay. We're okay.” Steve's breathing slowed, smoothing out to an even rhythm.

“Daddy woulda’ tanned your hide for cussin’ in English; _Dia a anam_. What do ya think you're doin’ you _muc Meiriceánach_.” Steve giggled quietly, and if Bucky listened real hard she could hear the tears in Steve's laughter. She held Steve tighter. 

Bucky closed her eyes and prayed that when she opened them they would be in Brooklyn again, that this hellish war would be over, that Steve would fit perfectly against her again, that Bucky could keep her safe.

They weren't, it wasn't, Steve didn't, and Bucky couldn't. 

2016

The Asset woke up in reverse, everything blindingly bright then slowly receding into darkness.

She wasn't restrained, simply lying in a bed. The room was blank, no other furniture save for the bed she was laying on the intravenous apparatus connected to the crook of her flesh arm. The Asset examined the hanging bag carefully, then sat up and removed it from the hook it hung on, quickly scanning the label for its contents; she saw nothing destructive. She re-hung the bag and laid back onto the bed, raising both of her legs and bending them carefully, fully functional, and rolled both of her shoulders forward and back, sensing no tightness in the flesh one and no technological deficits to the prosthesis. She glanced at the door across the room, which did not seem like it would inhibit her, but seeing as she was being held in a building most likely built by Antonia Stark, The Asset chose not to underestimate its strength. She turned her eyes back to the fluid bag and decided she would wait until it was empty.

Then she would make her escape.

***

Stevie was sitting in her chair, eyes barely open as she watched Bucky through the one-way glass.

Bucky hadn't moved much in the past 12 hours, she had only woken 20 minutes ago, tested her muscles, looked at the IV fluid Bruce had hooked her up to, and then laid back on the bed and hasn't moved since. Stevie didn't care. She didn't think she would ever get enough time to look at Bucky's face.

 _She's alive!_ The selfish part of her screamed. _She's alive and she's here and she's **yours** and she's so beautiful and you love her. _

_They hurt her._ The rational part of her scolded. _They hurt her so bad she doesn't remember. She looked right at me like she'd never even seen me before. She looked right **through** me. _

_She's alive!_

_She's hurt._

_She's **here**. _

_Not completely._

The internal battle of her brain thundered around her temples, but she refused to take her eyes from Bucky's chest; it's slow, even rise. Stevie focused only on that, instead of being horrified by the metal _thing_ sticking out of her shoulder. _Oh, Buck. I'm so sorry._

“Capsicle? Helllllooooooo?” Antonia's voice called from the door way. Stevie inhaled, sitting up and turning to face her. “Yes?” Stevie asked, “How can I help you, _Ma'am_?”

Antonia winced, but still walked forward into the room. “Have you been sitting here all night?” She pulled a chair over to sit next to Stevie, “I’ve been standing in the doorway saying your name for ten minutes.” She looked all over Stevie's face, “You look terrible. You're going to need a shower before you go to see Andy.” Stevie's eyebrows scrunched together.

“Who's Andy? And why am I going to see them?”

Antonia pulls out her phone and begins tapping on its screen, “She's your therapist. That you're going to see every day this week until she says you’re ready to see her less.” Stevie shakes her head, “Antonia, you're fu—”

“You're going.” Antonia said flatly, eyes still focused on her phone, “You're allowed on missions again because of necessity, but you're not any better. So for one hour a day you go see Andy, you talk to Andy, you get better, and then for the other 23 you can watch your assassin girlfriend like a nature film. Sound good?” Antonia looked up, eyebrows raised.

Stevie thought about arguing. Thought about telling Stark to fucking _stick it_ and ignoring her, possibly taking a power nap and then continuing to watch Bucky breathe.

Then she thought about Sam’s face every time they find her in the gym past midnight.

So she swallowed her pride and turned to Antonia, “When and where?”

Antonia had the same victory smile as her mother.

***

The Asset unhooked the intravenous tube from her arm and stood up from the bed. She did another assessment of her arms and legs, finding them functional, and walked to the center of the room.

She scanned the seemingly white, shiny walls, looking for possible weak spots. She found one about 2/3 up the wall facing west, a panel that was most likely hiding a viewing room. She grabbed the metal pole that had held the fluid bag, and broke the end of it off with her boot, making the end blunt. Then with all the strength she could, she used her metal arm to hurl it at the one-way glass. The pole hit the window with a _crack_ that caused a small line to splinter it from top to bottom. A piercingly loud alarm sounded throughout the room.

The Asset picked up the bed, turned it on its side, and climbed on top of it, standing up and punching a fist through the already cracked window that caused a person-sized piece of glass to fall out of the frame. She pulled herself up and through the hole it left, hearing the door opening beneath her.

She was in a nondescript room, only filled with a table and some chairs, one of which was pulled away from the table and sat barely a foot from the window. The Asset kicked down the door, finding herself in an unfamiliar hallway. She walked down the hallway until she found an alcove and backed into it silently. She reached for her surveillance device.

The pocket was empty.

The Asset let out a grunt of frustration.

She walked out of the alcove, running for the door at the end of the hallway. When she was less than a yard away, she noticed smoke had begun leaking from the vents embedded in all of the walls. The door in front of her began to swirl, and once again the Asset’s world went black.

***

Stevie fidgeted in her chair, pulling at her fingers shifting her eyes constantly. The woman sat across from her, Andy, had said nothing to her for the past half hour that they had been sitting in this room.

Stevie was going to _kill_ Antonia Stark.

***

Tony stood beside the bed and stared at the young woman who used to be Jane Rebecca Barnes. She had heard her mother talk about Barnes plenty of times (when Tony was young Hannah wouldn't ever _shut up_ about “Cap and the Commandos!”, Tony had spent most of her younger years despising Stevie with every ounce of her being), but it was totally different seeing her, strapped to one of the beds in Tony's recovery suite with a constant stream of sedatives being pumped into her system.

Barnes looked younger like this, without the makeup and the mask and the guns, she just looked like any other girl. Her eyes were closed, soft lilac semi-circles pressed beneath them, her face was pale and a little drawn, her cheekbones sharp and her dark brown hair a mess of matted curls. Even from Tony's unpracticed medical eye, Barnes looked a lot better after the several hours of uninterrupted sleep, but now what she needed was to eat something. The Avengers had sat around a table upstairs to see who would come down and try and get tall, dark, and murder-y to eat the oatmeal that had been made with extra protein and vitamins packed in. After Stevie had been automatically vetoed, much to Captain Asshole’s pouty, sulky fury, they had played rock, paper, scissors.

Tony had lost to Sam's paper. Twice.

So here she was, standing next to a terrifying assassin that had tried to break out of her compound with cold, accurate precision and would have succeeded if Jarvis had not been smart enough to pump enough chloroform to take out an elephant through the air system. And now she was going to wake up said terrifying assassin and try to get her to eat some oatmeal.

The things Tony did for friends, honestly.

Because of all the things that had happened today, watching Rogers’ face during their ‘Avengers Team Meeting’ when they discussed what had happened to Barnes was something Tony didn't ever think she would be able to un-see.

Tony had witnessed many emotions from the Brave and Valiant Captain America; there was Captain Cranky, the one who never got enough sleep and always looked angry, Captain Asshole, the one that used sarcasm as her first language and smirked incessantly, Captain Kicked-Puppy, who whined when she didn't get her way and always wanted attention, and very rarely did she see the reclusive Captain Calm, who wasn't really happy but for once wasn't Sad, Angry, or Patriotic so her state of being became mostly just ‘chilling’, but Tony had never seen a  look like that on Stevie's face before.

It was raw, _gut-ripped-open_ misery, pain in its most primal form spliced with a slab of spine-wracking guilt; Captain Indescribable Anguish.

Tony imagined it was how she would look at Bruce if someone had ripped off Bruce’s arm and put her brain in a blender for 70 years while Tony was trapped in a block of ice.

Tony turned back to the assassin on the bed, clicking the button at the edge of the tray she's holding so that the legs of it pop out and Tony can place it on the ground next to the bed. Tony leaned over to test the restraints, making sure they were all sturdy before she flipped the switch on the IV tube, stopping the flow of medication.

Jane Barnes woke slowly, rolling her shoulders and testing her bonds before she opened her eyes. She stared at Tony assessingly, steel-gray eyes calm and empty.

“Um, Good Morning!” Tony said awkwardly, “I mean it's actually late evening, but you just woke up and that's what people say when you first wake up so,” she stuttered over her words as Barnes stared unwaveringly into her eyes, “I brought you some food! Because you haven't eaten in at least 24 hours, that we know of, so, yeah.” She gestured to the oatmeal; Barnes didn't look away from Tony's face, “So I'm gonna sit you up and help you eat some, is that? Cool?” Barnes’ expression didn’t change. “Okay. I'm gonna raise the bed now.” Tony pressed a button on the side of the bed, allowing Barnes to sit up while still keeping her restrained. Tony presses another button on the tray, picking up the oatmeal and standing back as the tray bent itself into a chair that Tony pulled up to the side of the bed. Tony retrieved a spoon out of her pocket, scooping up some oatmeal into it and clearing her throat, bringing it to Barnes’ closed mouth.

The assassin didn't even acknowledge the spoon hovering in front of her mouth, but rather continued to give Tony her frightening, I'm-going-to-gut-your-entire-family-in-front-of-you stare. Suddenly noise flooded the room as someone from the outside talked into the intercom.

“You aren't even going to let her _feed_ herself? You already have her strapped to a bed, Tony, for _foc_ ’s sake she's not going to—” Stevie's voice suddenly cut out. She sounded exhausted, even over the intercom. She had come back from her therapy session wound tighter than a metal coil and had only gotten grumpier when they had vetoed her request to go in to see her human-murder-machine. Tony was just about to call back to her, when she noticed Barnes expression had changed.

Her face was contorted, half in confusion and half in…pain? Frustration? Tony wasn’t entirely sure, but for the first time since she woke, Barnes immediately started pulling at her bonds, body trying desperately to strain upward.

“Barnes? Barnes, are you okay?” Tony stood, placing the bowl on the ground and putting out her hands in what she hopes is a placating gesture, “What's wrong?”

Barnes face turned impassive again and she stopped squirming instantly, “Неясная Запрос связи.” 

“Ummmm. Jarvis? Translation?”

“She is speaking in Russian, Ma'am. The closest translation I can give is, ‘Unclear communication order.’ I believe she means that she does not understand the question.” Barnes didn't respond at all to the disembodied voice of the AI.

“Oh. Okay.” Tony looked at the viewing window, shoulders shrugged in confusion. She turned back to Barnes, “I meant, are you okay? Like, are you injured? Or just upset?”

Barnes seemed to consider the question, “Функциональная. Незначительное умственная неисправностью ратифицирована.”

“Functional. Minor mental malfunction ratified.” Jarvis translated. _Mental malfunction. Good God._ “Um, that wasn't a malfunction, Barnes. Oh, shit. Do you know who you are? By the way?” Tony winced.

Barnes considered once more.  She looked steadily at Tony, “Я солдат. Активов.”

“I am the Soldier. The Asset.” Jarvis said immediately after Barnes finished.

Tony winced again and sat back down in the chair next to the bed. “You're not just a soldier. You're—” the door behind them burst open, revealing a disheveled Stevie, eyes wild and chest heaving.

“Your name is Jane Becca Barnes.” She said, voice breaking. She walked into the room slowly, and Barnes started to struggle as she walked closer. She finally stood next to the bed, eyes trained on Barnes’ face, which couldn't decide whether it was confused, blindly furious, or in excruciating pain. Stevie's mouth opened like she wanted to say something, then shut again. Barnes bucked even harder against her restraints which, as Tony looked, _holy shit,_ had started to break. Tony flipped the switch on the sedative, and watched as Barnes’ struggles lessened and lessened until she was totally still once more, eyes shut and hands lax. Tony stood, picking up the bowl of oatmeal and walking away from the chair. She didn't look at Stevie when she said “I'll get a bag of nutritional slush, I guess.” She sighed, “Might have to feed her through the tube for a bit.” Tony didn't turn but she heard Stevie's full-body shudder. “Thank you, Tony.” Stevie said softly, voice clogged with tears. Tony walked to the door, and only then did she look back.

Stevie was sitting in the chair Tony had brought in, hunched over onto the bed. Her shoulders shook horribly, and Tony could see that she was gripping Barnes’ flesh hand so harshly her knuckles were turning white.

She looked like a wife crying over her spouse’s casket.

“Of course. If there's anything I can…” She trailed off, “Just let me know.”

Tony had shut the door and made it halfway up the stairs before she realized Stevie hadn't called her Antonia.

***

The Asset woke to darkness.

She was still occupying the room where she had met Antonia Stark, Alias: Iron Man. She looked around, then blinked her eyes twice to activate her night-vision capabilities. The room had not changed physically, besides the additional person inside it.

Captain America was sitting in the chair Stark had brought, across the room with the back of it pressed up against the wall. The Captain was awake also. The Asset and the Captain both assessed each other calmly, but The Captain spoke first.

“How're you feelin’, Buck?”

A shockwave of pain ricocheted up the base of the Asset’s spine and splintered through her skull.

“Das ist nicht mein Name.” The Asset said sharply. _._

The Captain smiled. “Vielen Dank für die Umstellung auf eine Sprache, die kenne, Buck.”

The pain drilled into The Asset’s temples, “Это не мое имя!” She screamed as she threw herself backward onto the bed, struggling to get free. The Captain stood quickly and walked over to the Asset’s bed. The Asset fought as hard as she possibly could against her bonds, closed her eyes and strained harder than ever, until she felt a hand touch her face.

The Captain kneeled on the floor next to her bed, gently running a pale hand over the Asset’s cheek and brow, and smoothing back dark brown hair from out of the Asset’s eyes. The Asset’s breathing slowed, the urge to fight suddenly and unexplainably gone out of her, and the Asset could not help turning toward the other girl, gently pushing her face further into the Captain’s hand.

 _Captain? Bull-shit. You'll always be the blue-eyed, buck-tooth, skinny, lil dame with those delicate shoulders and scooped-out collarbones sharper than your tongue to me; my Stevie, my Steve,_ mo chalín.

The Asset opened her eyes and stared fixedly into Steve’s, following protocol for interactions with missions. _Eyes ahead, show no fear, you are the Asset, Опять же, или вы будете наказаны._ Steve looked at her without fear also, her face calm and gentle as her hand steadily continued to touch the Asset’s face. The Asset waited for Steve to speak, a silent wish to hear her voice again.

But Steve was silent. Silent and steady and calm as she ran her thin but strong fingers through the Asset’s hair. _It's too_ focáil _long. Look like some kinda hoover wearin’ my hair down to my waist all knotted and dirty._ The Asset shuddered but didn't pull away from Steve’s touch. The pair stayed like that, staring at each other while Steve touched the Asset’s hair without aggression or intent to punish.

The Asset felt her heart slow, the once extremely important reasons for her to escape fading into confusion. Why would she leave here? Leave _Steve_? The Asset had had a mission that she had failed, that she _wanted_ to fail, and now she had been captured. The Handler would not be pleased. The Asset mulled over the lesson options the Handler would employ to explain what the Asset had done incorrectly. Most likely the Chair.

The Asset retained mixed feelings toward the Chair.

The Asset did not realize she had closed her eyes again until she opened them once more to look at Steve. Steve had her eyes focused on the floor, her hand unmovingly tangled in the Asset’s hair. The Asset watched as Steve breathed heavily, her cheeks flushing and a light sheen of sweat dotting her hairline. Steve looked back up at her, eyes wild but bright, and finally spoke.

“I'm about to do something very illegal, Buck.” She said quietly, “Can you help me?”

The Asset considered. Communication protocol deigned that if the Handler asks for assistance, you assist. The Asset could easily construe this as a glitch in her programming. She nodded to Steve.

Steve took in an unsteady breath, and removed her hand gently from the Asset’s hair. She then reached down and pulled a gun out of her pocket. The Asset tensed up, ready for Steve to take the shot, but instead of aiming the gun at her, Steve aimed it at the ceiling of the room. She hit two of the four top corners, then lowered the gun. “We gotta be quick, Buck.” She said calmly.

Steve pulled a small rectangle out of her pocket, pressing it to each of the restraints, which unlocked them one by one. The Asset rubbed her flesh wrist for a moment as Steve also removed the intravenous tubes from her as well, and then the Asset stood. Steve handed her the gun, which the Asset tucked into a holster, and gestured for the Asset to follow. Steve opened the door and they ran down the hallway after hallway together, occasionally stopping when Steve would pull the Asset out of view. Eventually they reached a door Steve didn't immediately burst through. She walked back to the last door they had run through, and easily bent the door knob, making it unable to open. Steve turned back to around to face the Asset. She did not look calm anymore; she looked frantic and afraid.

“You gotta go through this door, Buck. It leads to the roof. Once you're up there I'm sure you'll know where to go,” she looked at the ground, “Just. Please don't go back to _them,_ Buck. _Please_.” She begged.

The Asset was filled with blind panic. Steve had to come. Steve had to follow.

“You are—not. Following?” The Asset asked in English, “We are not. Protocol demands. The Handler accompanies the Asset. On missions involving unknown. Parameters.” Steve looked—wounded? In pain, when the Asset said the last. 

“I'm not the handler, Buck. I'm just Stevie. Your best friend, Stevie.”

“Then why? Not. Follow?” The Asset said haltingly. She did not entirely understand Steve’s communication protocols, but Steve had to come. The Asset would make her.

The Asset could hear the echoes of boots running on metal heading toward them. Steve turned to listen, then looked back at the Asset. “I just can't, Buck. And you have to go. You have to go n—” the door at the end of the hall began to bend inward, revealing a red, metal hand. _Ironman._

The Asset pushed Steve into the door, opening it and forcing her up the first few steps. “Go.” The Asset said, pushing Steve forward. Steve sucked in a breath and began to sprint up the steps, the Asset following. They reached the roof within minutes, and the Asset grabbed Steve and pulled her close. “Hold. Onto me.” She said, placing Steve’s arms around her neck and gesturing for Steve to wrap her legs around the Asset’s waist. Steve complied a moment before the roof door opened behind them, and the Asset sprinted off the roof, metal hand digging into the concrete on the side of the building and helping slow their fall. The Asset jumped from the side of the building and landed on another roof adjacent to it, running off the edge of that and scaling down the building easily. Once they landed on the ground Steve slipped off of the Asset’s back. The Asset grabbed Steve's arm and began pulling her away from the main streets, running through back corners and alleys, jumping low fences and keeping firm hold on Steve.

They did not stop to catch their breath, and Steve was silent, allowed herself to be pulled along, and effortlessly kept pace with the Asset. They reached a quieter area of the city, slightly more familiar in layout to the Asset, so she stopped and gestured for Steve to climb onto her once more, then scaled a building that she had been held in once? twice? The Asset did not know.

She kicked in the roof door, pulling Steve in behind her, and shut it tightly. She pulled Steve down the stairs, past the two levels of empty offices into the main hangar where the Asset had been contained. The Asset pulled Steve to the wall farthest away from the windows, which were about 2/3 up the wall and blocked by the building beside it, preventing an aerial view. The Asset pressed Steve against the wall and forced her to sit on the ground.

“I go. Get supplies. And vehicle. You stay here. Right here. Do not move.” The Asset ordered clumsily, _you take the orders, champ, not give ‘em._ “I will be back.” Steve shook her head, standing up to meet eyes with the Asset.

“Where are ya goin’, Buck? I'll come with.” Steve said confidently. The Asset grunted. “No. Stay.” Steve stared at the Asset, and leaned back on the wall behind her. “What were ya’ thinkin’ in terms of ‘supplies’? Firearms?  Cuz I can betcha you won't find a gun shop ‘round here. And they don't sell bullets in grocers anymore.” She pursed her lips, “And you definitely don't have any money to _buy_ said supplies, how were you thinkin’ of getting’ ‘em?” The Asset stared at her. “Exactly.” Steve said, “And I'm not lettin’ you steal on my watch. So, we’ll go together, I'll pay, and then you can tell me where we're goin’ and what the plan is.”

The Asset considered this.

Protocol called for a mission. The Asset knew she would not function long without a mission. Her speech would go first, then her mental faculties, and soon she would be in constant pain from her head and from the prosthetic, and without the Handler or the Chair, she would be unable to revert.

But. _Steve._

The Asset _wanted_ Steve.

The Asset had forgotten _want_ , and she could not will herself to give it up so easily. At least, not yet. She knew that they would come for her, and she knew _they_ would come for Steve. She could not let either happen.

So the Asset looked at the-Target-the-Captain-Stephanie-Steve Rogers, and created a new mission.

Protect Steve. Keep Steve safe.

 _Good_ focáil _luck, pal. I tried that too._

 The Asset nodded to Steve, and grabbed her arm, pulling her back up the stairs to the roof. She pulled Steve low, to crouch with her, and crawled over to the ledge. The Asset scoped out the street, narrowing her eyes at the convenience store tucked a block from their location. She figured from the look of the outside that they probably had clothes they could change into, because most likely they had trackers embedded in the ones they were wearing. And even if the clothes were clean; the less recognizable they were the better.

The Asset wordlessly pulled Steve onto her back, scaling down the building quickly and hiding in an alley. She pulled Steve to the edge of the alley and pointed at the store down the street.

“You. Follow me into the store. We need. Neu. _Kleider_. Da?” Steve nodded. The Asset looked at what she was wearing, a pair of tan pants and a long sleeve jacket. “Give. The _jacke_. To cover. The.” She raised the prosthesis. Steve nodded again and unbuttoned the jacket, shrugging it off and handing it to the Asset, revealing a plaid long-sleeve underneath. The Asset pulled on the jacket and buttoned it up, pulling the sleeve down over her metal fingers.

The Asset grabbed Steve's arm and pulled her out of the alley. “Keep. Your head down. We don't want. Anyone recognizing. America’s blue-eyed. Bombshell.” The Asset said. _Blue-eyed bombshell_? The Asset stopped walking, confused at what came out of her mouth, and looked at Steve.

Steve was frozen, eyes locked on the Asset’s face, mouth wide open with shock. The two stood there, just staring at each other for a moment, then the Asset remembered where they were, and the mission. So she pulled Steve forward, toward the store at the corner.

1944

“I'm _tellin_ ’ ya Stevie, that monkey-suit does nothin’ but good shit for the gentlemen.” Dugan said with a jaunty grin, puffing her cigarette and leaning back against the log behind her. Across the fire, Morita nodded and Falsworth laughed, throwing her head back and hitting Jones in the leg, which caused her to shove Falsworth forward into the dirt, and roused up another chorus of laughter from the whole group.

Bucky crossed her legs, cracking her knuckles absently and looking up at the sky to avoid the gorgeous blush painted on Steve's cheeks. Dugan was right; the suit made her look good, the same way her own uniform turned a rough-and-tumble girl who had been treading water in the sea of poverty since before she could talk into a tall, well-respected young lady that any man would be proud to belong with. Uniforms have that effect; an essential component of the mask of war.

The sky was clear, and for the first time in a while they could see all the stars without having to strain their eyes past thick storm clouds that brought nothing but rain and snow and misery up in the European mountains. She watched the bright half-circle of the moon and wondered what the world must look like from up there. She wondered if God really could see everything, and if God could see everything, did God see Bucky’s love? Did God know it was there?

The love Bucky felt, the _want_ and the _need_ that ran down to the very marrow of her bones felt so big in her chest that sometimes with just one look at Steve she thought she'd be fit to burst. But if God was so far away, Bucky’s love must look awful small.

“Sarge?”

Bucky looked over at Morita, who had an eyebrow raised in God’s direction. “What’d you think about the Cap’s star-spangling, ass-huggin’ suit? Think the gents are fallin’ in love in spades?”

Bucky looked over at Steve, who wasn't looking at her, but still blushing at the fire. There was dirt on her cheek, but her eyes were a clear, calm, beautiful blue; the color of Coney Island beaches when they used to go when they were little. Before they had to have dates if they were going out. Her hair was braided back out of her face, quick and messy and mud-matted so dark that it shaded her hair from dark blonde to brown around her temples and at the base of her neck. Even then, after so long, her beauty was still a _dia diabhal_ sucker punch to the stomach. _No._  She thought, _God must be as amazed by you as I am_.

“Of course they are. Even the most _chaste_ and _faithful_ guy can't help goin’ pie-eyed over America’s Blue-eyed Bombshell.”

Every single Howlie roared with laughter, and Bucky waited for Steve to look over at her. The moment she did, Bucky turned her eyes back to the sky.

2016

Stevie watched Bucky from across the store, wearing Stevie’s jacket with her little brown eyebrows scrunched up in confusion as she searched through racks of nondescript clothing hanging from racks. She picked up two pairs of pants, four long sleeve t-shirts, two zip-up hoodies, a pack of hair ties, two hats, and two pairs of sunglasses. She looked over at Steve across the store and nodded her head, just once. She also grabbed a duffle bag and a backpack, still walking toward the register. They met there a few steps away from the counter, and Stevie pulled some cash out of her pocket and handed it to her.

Buck took it from her and made a gesture for Stevie to stay where she was. Stevie nodded and smiled at her as brightly as she could. Buck turned around and marched her way over to the counter to pay.

Once they were back in the warehouse Buck had absconded her to, Buck immediately began to strip off Stevie's jacket, the fatigues, and the boots she'd been wearing for the past few days. Buck didn't even acknowledge the fact that she was naked in front of Stevie, she didn't even have any _drawers_ on, _Íosa Críost focáil_. And Stevie has seen Bucky naked before, they went through not only a _war_ together, but also a childhood of living next door to each other with Daddies that were best friends themselves and practically raised them and Bucky’s brothers all in _one_ apartment, running wild and bare after their baths all in one tub, but this is _different_. Bucky didn't turn her back or try to cover herself, her broad shoulders, her tucked-in waist, her moonbeam skin, just the way Stevie remembered it, except, _not._

She had three puckered, rounded scars dotted from her hip to her stomach, _bullet wounds_ , scattered reddish lines that stretched from barely an inch to almost five, _stitched up knife wounds_ , and the overlapping grid of scars that look mottled and painful where the metal arm attached to her body. Bucky reached over into the store bag, pulling out a pair of blue jeans and a red henley. She looked up at Stevie, still unabashedly naked, and tossed the bag with the rest of the clothes at her without a word, indicating that she also should change.

Stevie pulled out another pair of pants and shirt, turning away from Buck and changing as fast as she possibly could. Once she was dressed, she pulled out the backpack and stuffed it with the rest of the clothes they had just bought and the duffle that Bucky had grabbed. When she turned back around she saw that Buck was dressed and searching through the pockets on the clothes she had just taken off. She worried at the seams for a few minutes than dropped them, walking over to Stevie and holding out a hand for the clothes she had just been wearing.

Buck felt each and every inch of the khakis and button-down Stevie’d been wearing, laser-like precision never leaving the fabric until she reached an in-seam on the left leg and pulled out a— _mo Dia—_ round, metal, half-a-bullet sized device with a small blinking red light and an ‘S’ engraved on the side. _Antonia_ focáil _Stark._

Bucky dropped the clothes to the ground and kicked them away with a grunt. Then she grabbed Stevie by the forearm, again, and pulled her toward a door that looked rusted shut.  Bucky broke the doorknob off with the heel of her boot and walked through, towing Stevie behind her. She muttered under her breath in another language, Russian? probably? and stalked down the street as swiftly as possible until they reached a parking lot a few blocks down.

Bucky pulled Stevie into the lot, checking left and right to make sure no one was in sight, and then walked up to a two-door, navy car with blacked-out windows. She kneeled beside the car door and with her flesh hand began to _unscrew the top joint of her left pointer finger_. Once the joint was off, a thin-looking spindle was all that remained and Bucky easily began to pick the car door’s lock with it. They got into the car and Buck replaced the finger joint to her hand and sat in the driver’s seat, forcing Stevie to sit in the passenger with the backpack. Buck had the car started within minutes, and then they were pulling out of the lot and off onto the road.

Stevie sat quietly in the passenger seat, watching Buck drive, her ice-gray eyes focused and calm, even though she had to be exhausted and starving from the beat-up she'd been through over the past few days at the hands of people Stevie thought were her _friends_ , but were really just people who didn't trust her and only wanted to use her when they thought it was fit for them.

Bucky kept her flesh hand on the wheel and the metal one on the gearshift, same as she did when she drove them in an army jeep overseas, except back then Bucky knew her own name, her body hadn't been tortured so much she looked like she'd been ripped apart and sewn back together clumsier than an eight-year-old’s doll, and she had _two_ real hands instead of one.

Stevie looked at her face again, just drinking in the look of her, and felt an overwhelming burst of gratefulness, and an even worse stab of guilt. _Mea Culpa, Buck, mea culpa, mea_ maxima _culpa._

She reached down and took Bucky’s metal hand off the gearshift and tucked it between two of her own. Bucky made a noise and looked over at her, but she didn't look upset or angry. She looked? _needy_ , and confused. So Stevie pulled Bucky's hand into her lap and began to gently rub her fingers over Bucky's knuckles, tracing the plates and looking at the way they clicked together perfectly.

Bucky sighed, eyes back on the road, and rolled her shoulders. Stevie looked over at her. “Can you feel this? Is it okay that I'm doing it?”

Bucky nodded, “I can feel. The pressure. Of your fingers. It is.” She paused, considering, “Positive.”

Stevie nodded, acknowledging her answer, and continued to look at the way the arm fit together, the complexities and bends in the metal were surprisingly…beautiful. Not the monstrous machine Stevie had originally stared at when Bucky had looked like a _corpse_ lying in Stark’s hospital bed, but more like something _real_. Like something that _deserved_ to be a part of her Bucky.

She thought about the scars that were at the site of her arm, the scars that attached it to Buck, the way she had used it in the fight they'd had in that Hydra office that felt like _years_ ago instead of a few days, and how Buck hadn't even called it _her_ arm, just _the_ arm. Then she thought about the years Buck had spent in hell while Stevie was frozen in a ship buried in the ground. Thought about how many times someone had probably touched Bucky's arm, and how very few of them were anything close to kind or gentle.

She took her hand off of Bucky for a second to wipe away a tear.

“Have you decided on a plan yet, Buck?” Stevie asked quietly, still gently rubbing at Buck’s knuckles and her wrist.

“Fulfill the mission.” Bucky said, voice still covered in a thick foreign accent and eyes still on the road, but face a lot more relaxed, almost content.

“What's the mission, Buck? Maybe if ya clue me in I can help, yeah?” Stevie looked over at Bucky, who was thinking, eyebrows scrunched up in concentration. Then she nodded. “The Asset must keep Rogers, Stephanie alias: Captain America, safe.”

“Safe from who, Buck? Who do you need to keep me safe from?” Stevie asked in a gentler voice, folding her fingers between Bucky's to hold her hand. Bucky’s gaze on the road turned to steel; the same look she had given Stevie three days ago before she had stabbed her.

“Everyone.” Bucky said, voice hard. “No one will touch you.”

***

“Hey Buck, it's gettin’ kinda late. Think we should stop somewhere? Maybe get some sleep? Something to eat?” Steve continued to touch the fingers softly as she spoke, and the Asset looked over at her, face barely visible in the dark. They had been driving all day and for a large portion of the night and the Asset could hear the fatigue in Steve’s voice. The Asset considered the options.

She knew they would need to replenish funds soon (Steve's wallet did not have a satisfactory amount of cash, the Asset had checked), a location to plan could be beneficial, and seeing as the Asset had not decided where she wanted to take Steve, making one small stop could not hurt. Besides, part of safety could be construed as making sure Steve is functional, and from what the Asset could see, Steve did not look optimally functional.

“Buck?”

The Asset looked at Steve, wanting to reply to the question she had asked but instead what came out was, “Why do you call me that?”

Steve looked slightly startled. “Because that's your name. That's what I've called you, my—our—whole lives. I've never called you anything but Bucky, Buck.” Her eyes filled with panic, “Unless you don't like it, then I'll stop. I talked with my friend Sam about that, not calling people things they don't want to be called and—”

“I like it.” The Asset said softly, “I do not.” She grunted, “I do not understand _why_ , but I like it. I want it.” She turned her eyes back to the road, this time with a destination in mind. 

“Okay, Buck.”

***

Buck opened the passenger car door and grabbed Stevie's arm and the backpack in one motion, pulling her toward the tiny motel they had found in a town so small Stevie wasn't even sure it had its own name. Bucky marched her into the motel, paying for a room in the cash she had gotten out of an ATM using Stevie's card a few miles back. Stevie knew that the Avengers would see the money being removed, but she didn't think they would follow them, and if they did, Stevie thought grimly, they would regret it.

Bucky took the key from the man behind the counter without a word and pulled Stevie down the hallway to the left and unlocked the door, pushing Stevie inside and locking the door behind them. Bucky pushed Stevie toward the bed and tossed the backpack on the ground in one motion, and then stalked into the bathroom. She burst out of the door a moment later, then began careful combing every inch of the carpeting and baseboarding that covered the floor, and then when she was finished, she checked every door, dresser, and window. Satisfied, she stood up and looked at Stevie, still sitting on the bed.

Stevie smiled at her softly and patted the space on the bed next to her. Bucky didn't understand the gesture, or if she did, ignored it, and continued to stand in the middle of the room. Her eyebrows were drawn together in confusion and uncertainty, her metal arm clicking and whirring softly as she shifted her weight from foot to foot.

Stevie cleared her throat, “You wanna come sit with me, Buck? Tell me what the rest of your plan is?” She patted the mattress-space next to her again, and this time Bucky took the initiative and stalked over and sat down stiffly on the bed, roughly a foot and a half away from Stevie.

“So.” Stevie tried not to stare too hard at Buck’s face. “What were you thinking of doing? To keep me safe? Do you have a safe house in mind? Or another place you want to hide out? Or—”

“You were small.”

Stevie swallowed the next thing she was about to say, startled, “Um, yeah. I was. I got the serum—”

“Erskine, Abraham. Doctor. Injected Rogers, Stephanie with Super-Soldier Serum as the final stage of Project Rebirth.” Bucky nodded. “I know how you got big. But.” She paused, “You were small.”

Stevie reached over, slowly so Bucky could see what she was doing, and gently took Bucky's metal hand into her own. “Yeah. I was small when we met. Do you just remember me being small? Or do you remember how sick I was too? Because I was really sick, Buck. I was always hurting, I had breathing problems, and every winter you were sure I wasn't gonna live through and—”

“I do not remember.” Bucky said, abruptly removing her fingers from Stevie's and standing up. She walked a few steps away from the bed, then turned back around to face Stevie. And _goddamn_ if the look on her face didn't cut Stevie right down to the core. She looked so scared, so lost and confused and _hurt_ and _Dia_ focáil _diabhal Stevie was gonna kill all of them, every last_ diabhal _one of them and she was gonna make it_ slow _and they were gonna_ suffer _and—_

“That. Was false.” Bucky turned away from Stevie, “I. Remember you. Being small. And I wanted to keep you safe. You were playing in the dirt. And she came and expressed. Aggression toward you. And I wanted to break her arm.” Stevie closed her eyes and let out a shaky breath. “Did I break her arm? I do not...” Bucky shook herself, all of the animation bleeding out of her face instantly. “You should sleep until you are functional. Then we will leave.”

Stevie watched Bucky pull the chair away from the desk at the corner of the room and place it against the wall corner closest to the bed, giving her a full view of the room. Bucky was silent and did not look at her.

Stevie laid back on the bed and turned away from Bucky, covering her mouth with her hands to muffle her hitching breaths.

1925

Andrea Klinger wailed as she fell to the ground next to Stevie. Stevie opened one eye to look at her from the shelter of her own arms covering her face from a moment before when Andrea was kicking dirt in it.

Andrea scrambled to her feet and streaked off in search of her daddy, carrying on and crying, so Stevie sat back on her bottom and lowered her hands to see who had saved her.

The girl was a little taller than Stevie, with long, messy hair falling out of a dark brown bun at the nape of her neck and wearing a pair of khaki trousers and a dirty-blue collared shirt. The girl stuck out a filthy hand to help Stevie up, which Stevie took with an equally filthy hand. Once she was standing they shook.

“I'm Jane Becca Barnes.” The girl said; she had two front teeth missing, “and I'm four years old. You can call me Bucky.”

“I'm Stephanie Grace Rogers, but my Daddy calls me Stevie. You can too, if you wanna. I'm five and a half.” Bucky nodded and smiled her gap-tooth smile again. Stevie liked the smile.

“Wanna play with me?” Stevie asked, “I was ‘boutta make a mudpie.”

Bucky wrinkled her nose, “Bakin’s men's work. That's what my Mama says.” Then she paused, thoughtful, “But if you can, then I guess I can too.” Stevie smiled and plopped back down on the ground, patting the space on the ground next to her.

2016

Stevie woke to someone shaking her shoulder gently. She inhaled sharply and rolled over, opening her eyes to see that the sun was just about to rise. The first time she had slept longer than an hour at a time in months. Bucky was standing next to the bed, hair pulled back and backpack on. “We must go. Quickly.”

Stevie was once again pulled down the hallway and out of the motel. Bucky stalked swiftly to the parking lot, passing the car they had driven there and instead taking a black SUV. She picked the lock and started the car, shuffling Stevie into the passenger seat and quietly pulling out of the lot. They had barely been on the road a few minutes when Stevie's stomach let out a loud, low growl. She looked over at Bucky, biting her lip. “Buck, we really should get something to eat. It's hitting the 48 hour mark for both of us.” _And that's **if** Bucky had eaten before she was in Stark's custody. _ Bucky grunted, but switched off the highway to an exit. They drove around aimlessly for a bit until they found a small supermarket.

Bucky parked the car, flipped up her hood, and slid a pair of sunglasses on. “Stay here.”

“But shouldn't—” the door slammed shut. Stevie sighed and leaned back in her seat. She scanned the parking lot on reflex, not seeing anything out of the ordinary other than the fact that their car was the one of only three patrons in the parking lot this early.

Stevie waited impatiently for Bucky to return. She had just about had it with waiting and was about to go in after her when Bucky walked calmly out of the store holding two bags. She got into the car a moment later, stuffing the groceries in Stevie's lap and starting the car before driving calmly out of the parking lot.

Stevie sifted through the bags’ contents, finding two loaves of bread, a few water bottles, and a jar of peanut butter. She could help but smile holding the peanut butter; Buck had always nicked Stevie's ration of peanut butter during the war. Stevie opened one bag of bread and carefully began assembling three sandwiches for each of them, using her pocket knife to spread the peanut butter. She stacked the sandwiches on the console between their seats pulled out two of the water bottles, packing away all the rest of the food into the small duffle inside the backpack before tossing both in the backseat. Stevie immediately began eating, chewing and swallowing the first without really tasting it and then eating the second with a little more care, glancing over at Buck to realize she wasn't eating.

Stevie grabbed a sandwich and held it out to Buck, swallowing before she said, “Here, Buck. I made you a few too.” Bucky barely looked away from the road. “I am not in need of nutritional supplement. Fully functional.”

“I know you're functional, Buck, but you still need to eat.”

“Nutritional supplement is not required until hour 96 of mission.”

“ _Hour 96?_ No. Absolutely not, you're not starving yourself for two more days. You're gonna eat the sandwich.”

“Unnecessary.”

“ _Completely_ necessary.”

“Against protocol.”

Stevie huffed, exasperated, “Well, you said I was the Handler right? Well I say there's new protocol. And that protocol is you eat when I eat. We square?”

Buck looked at the sandwich, still outstretched in Stevie's hand, and nodded, taking it from her. “New protocol acknowledged.” Then she began shoving the sandwich in her mouth as quickly as Stevie did, noiselessly chewing and swallowing it.

Stevie sighed, she _hated_ that she had to sink so low as to force Bucky to eat, but she couldn't argue with the results. Within minutes Buck had eaten all three of her sandwiches. Then, at Stevie's urging, also opened a water bottle and took a few small sips from it.

Leaning back in her seat, Stevie sighed, content. She glanced down to see Buck’s hand on the gearshift, and calmly reached over to thread her fingers through Buck’s metal digits. She closed her eyes, still holding Buck’s hand. She was asleep within minutes.

***

The Asset glanced at Steve’s sleeping form every few minutes to make sure that she was still breathing.

Steve had slept on and off the past 15 hours, only waking to drink some water and sometimes ask The Asset where they were going. The Asset had remained silent.

The plan was to take Steve to a safe house The Asset had been sequestered off to more than once. It had an extensive security system and was mostly underground, and was to The Asset’s knowledge, uninhabited. She imagined she could keep Steve there for at least a few months before anyone found them, and by then they would be gone.

If The Asset could remain functional until then.

_Good focáil luck, pal. You're more twisted than a tilt-a-whirl._

Acknowledged.

The Asset felt a tug on her hand, and looked over to see that Steve had turned her body to face The Asset, still fast asleep. The Asset stared at Steve.

Her face was a soft, pale cream and her cheeks were not quite ruddy but gently pink and she had freckles dotted across the bridge of her nose. There were blueish-blackish bruises under both of her eyes and her eyelashes were so long they brushed her skin. Her breathing was a slow and even rise, but The Asset continually watched her chest move, worried for some reason that it would suddenly stop.

_Old habits die hard, huh, champ?_

The Asset looked back toward the road, flexing her hand on the steering wheel. The Asset retained feelings toward the way Steve looked as she slept.

The feelings were positive.

Beside her Steve began to stir once more and sat up with a yawn so wide it almost split her face. Steve sleepily looked over at The Asset and smiled when their eyes met.

_God that smile, so warm you could light a candle. So bright you could power a city. So beautiful…_

The Asset shook her head and grit her teeth. _Malfunction._

“You alright, Buck?”

The Asset looked back over at Steve, who looked so soft and concerned and _beautiful_.

The Asset nodded, “Functional. Minor mental malfunction overridden.” Steve’s big blue eyes looked sad, but she nodded back, and leaned back in her seat and started to stroke the prosthesis. The Asset sighed softly and reveled in the almost-there feeling of Steve's little fingers, long and thin but still very strong, brushing over the metal plating and the grooves that fit together to help it bend. The Asset resisted the urge to close her eyes and drove faster.

1943

“Do you love him?”

Steve couldn’t tear her eyes away from the floor. She bit her lip and ran a hand through the shorter pieces of her hair that were falling out of her braid. “Well Buck, I—”

“Of course you do.” Bucky said kindly, painfully, “Of course you do, _mo_ _chailín is fearr_. He's wonderful, and you deserve wonderful.” She dropped an arm around Steve’s too-wide back and squeezed her too-thick shoulder. Steve smiled at her, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. “He’ll marry you, punk, you know that right? He'd marry you today if he could. I see the way he looks at you.” Bucky swallowed through her breaking heart, “You're meant for him. I know it, Steve. I know it, _mo chailín is fearr_.” Steve took a deep breath and smiled again, this time more genuinely.

“Thanks, Buck.” She smiled so bright she would've put the Brooklyn sun to shame.

“No problem, punk. You got nothing to worry about.” Steve leaned her head onto Bucky’s shoulder and Bucky pressed her face into Steve's hair. She breathed in the scent of dirt and blood and Steve's sweat and cursed God once more.

2016

Stevie woke to the feeling of being lifted out of her seat.

They had been driving for a three days, stopping every night so that Stevie could sleep in a bed and Bucky could keep watch and pretend that she was okay. Stevie, of course, knew better. She saw the way Buck couldn't hold still, had to constantly check and re-check every motel room and car they stole, make sure they were empty and safe. She hoped that once they reached the safe house Buck was so intent on getting to she could insist Buck sleep a little, maybe convince her to relax a little more.

Bucky had been getting better as the hours went on. Every time Stevie asked her to eat she looked a little healthier; more color in her face. She stopped pulling Stevie everywhere, and her speech was less clinical and more like something a normal person would say. And every once in a while, Bucky would look at her differently, like she was trying to understand something. Then she would look away and her face would return to one of her many variations of a blank stare.

Stevie didn't dare to even hope that Bucky would remember, even though the selfish part of her longed for Bucky to look at her the way she once did. Bucky was alive. Bucky was here with Stevie. That was more than enough.

Stevie opened her eyes and saw that it was dark outside, and she was being carried. By _Buck._ Her head was cradled up against Buck’s right chest and she could hear her heartbeat through the shirt she was wearing, steady and comforting.

“Buck?” She said softly, “I'm awake. You can put me down.” Buck’s hands tightened around her. “Almost there. Go back to sleep.”

“Where are we?” Stevie stretched her neck to look over Bucky's shoulder; all she could see was flat, dark landscape with mountains dotted in the distance.

“Nebraska. There is a bunker here I was kept in for—” she paused, “a while.”

Stevie nodded and closed her eyes, the motion of Bucky walking and feeling how solid and warm Bucky’s chest was where Stevie was curled against it too soothing for her to not get tired again. The next time she woke they had reached a sheer rock face. Bucky shifted Stevie onto one arm, and reached forward to pull something in the middle of the pile of rock. A low mechanical humming sounded, and slowly an opening appeared in the mass of stone.

Buck walked inside, still holding Stevie, and walked down a hallway to a set of stairs. Several flights of stairs later, they reached a series of rooms. Bucky walked inside the first one in the hall and set Stevie on the bed inside it, walking back out into the hall. Stevie sat up and looked around the room. It was plain, windowless, with white walls and a tile floor, a bed, desk and chair, and another door in the corner. Buck re-entered a minute later, tossing the bags on the floor.

“The place is empty,” she said softly, “we can stay for a week or two, then we should move on.” Stevie nodded and looked at the floor. Bucky shifted her weight between her feet and then turned to leave. “Goodnight, Steve.” She said.

“Bucky—” she stopped and turned toward Stevie once more, “I think, well, I don't know what you're—but you should get some sleep. It's been a few days, and you have to be exhausted.”

Bucky straightened up, squaring her shoulders. “I am functional.”

Stevie exhaled harshly through her nose, “I know you're _functional,_ Buck, but you haven't slept in days. And no one can keep going as long as you have without needing some sleep. You need it to survive.” _Hypocritical much?_

Bucky relaxed her shoulders and looked at the floor in an almost embarrassed way, “I cannot. Sleep promotes,” She clenched her fists twice, “Mental Malfunction. Against protocol and displeasing to The Handler.”

Stevie felt unease bubbling up in her stomach, “What do you mean ‘mental malfunction’?”

Buck’s arms tensed and she turned to face away from Stevie, “Catatonic episodes. Paranoia. Aggression towards The Handler and Maintenance workers. Disobedience.” She rolled her shoulders, the muscles tensed as if for a fight, “Requires The Chair and Discipline for correction.” Stevie swallowed and stood, walking over to stand behind Buck.

“Well,” Stevie pressed her lips together, “protocol _now_ dictates that you sleep at least 6 hours a night, and that you will no longer receive discipline or the chair, no matter the circumstances, okay?” Bucky turned around to face Stevie, eyes wide and confused.

***

“Okay?” Steve asked.

The Asset watched Steve's face, waiting for Steve to change her mind, waiting for her to act like every other Handler The Asset had ever known.

Steve's face was kind, eyes a wide, hypnotic blue. Her mouth was a soft pink, parted slightly where her teeth were digging into her bottom lip.

Her face was so, so, familiar _._

The Asset had been struggling with it for days.

_You knew her, champ. You knew her._

Yes. From the mission.

 _No honey, you knew her. You_ knew _her._

The Asset stared more, harder, longer, focusing on each and every detail of Steve's beautiful face, ignoring the pulsating stab of pain in her left temple.

Then, suddenly, Bucky’s entire world clicked into place. She placed her hands on Steve's shoulders and looked deep into her eyes.

“Buck? What—?” Bucky pulled Steve against her chest, crushing her in her arms and pressing her face into Steve's shoulder. “ _Mo chailín is fearr,”_ she murmured, her voice a soft, old, Brooklyn croon that hadn’t faded despite the years since it had been spoken, “ _Mo Dia_ , here you are, _mo chailín is fearr._ ”

***

Steve choked on her next breath and clutched at the back of Buck’s shirt, her knuckles turning white from how hard she gripped it. “Buck? _Buck._ Bucky. _Bucky_. _Mo chuisle. Foc_ , Buck. I. I.” Her breaths were halted and painful and she felt tears spring up in her eyes. Bucky squeezed her harder, then pulled away from her to look at her face. They were both crying.

“You. You. _Mo Dia._ ” Steve threw herself back against Bucky, pushing her back several feet until she had her boxed in up against the wall. “You're alive. You're alive. _We're_ alive.” Stevie whispered over and over. Bucky's mouth pressed up against Steve's left ear. “It's ok. We're ok. I'm so sorry.” Steve pulled back and held Bucky’s face in her hands.

“ _I'm_ sorry. It's my fault. I left you. I'm so _focáil_ sorry, _mo chuisle._ I'm so sorry I left you. I should have looked harder. I should have—”

Bucky grabbed Stevie's hands and held them within her own. “ _No._ None of it is your fault. It's their fault, it's—” she gasped and let go of Stevie, pushing her and stumbling away from the wall. “All those—I—I’m.” She closed her eyes, “ _Íosa Críost_ what have I _done._ ” She opened her eyes, still filled with life and understanding, but now manic; fearful. “Did I do that? Did I _kill_ all those—? _Mo_ _Dia, Hannah._ ” She dropped to her knees, wrapping her arms around herself.

Stevie dropped to the floor in front of her, “It is _not_ your fault. You didn't have a _choice_. You've been spending the past few days telling me about needing _discipline_ and The Handler, and _Íosa_ , Buck you didn't have a choice.” She cupped her cheek and leaned her forehead against Bucky's. “ _Mo chuisle_.” Bucky pressed her skin harder against Stevie’s “ _Mo chailín._ ”

Stevie laughed wetly. Tears flowed down her face and clouded her vision so bad Buck’s eyes were blurry pools of blue. Her hands reached up of their own accord and wrapped around Bucky’s shoulders, holding them together. Bucky copied her, pressing herself to Stevie at every point she could reach.

 It was the first time Stevie breathed in 70 years.

***

Alexander Pierce sat back in his chair, rubbing his hand over his chin. “How long have they been there?”

“A week. We haven't seen them in a few days; they've been avoiding the cameras.”  Rumlow said, crossing his arms. “It's been abandoned since the 80’s.” Alexander nodded, still scanning the security photos on the desk in front of him. “And why was it only brought to my attention now?”

“Some issues in the surveillance department.”

“ _Lingering_ issues?”

Rumlow smiled, “Not any longer, Sir.”

“Good.” Alexander looked at the pictures again, The Asset holding Stevie Rogers tightly in her arms, The Asset carrying a sleeping Rogers to bed, The Asset with tears in her eyes as she clutched at Rogers’ shirt, The Asset laughing, holding hands with Rogers.

Alexander shut the folder. “Send a team out. I want them both in custody before The Avengers locate them.” Rumlow nodded and saluted Alexander, “ _Heil Hydra._ ” Alexander nodded in reply, not looking up as Rumlow left the room.

***

_“How much do I love you? I'll tell you no lie.”_

Stevie leaned back onto the bed and looked up from her sketchpad, watching Buck reading across the room. The sketch was a still-life of Buck; the millionth that Stevie had drawn over the past week.

_“How deep is the ocean? How high is the sky?”_

Stevie was the happiest she had ever been since she woke up.

Bucky was _here_ , in mind and in body, safe and sound in this bunker far away from anyone who might want to hurt her. Their days together were achingly familiar, just the way it used to be, before the war and the serum and blood and pain. They were both changed, more serious and quiet than they’d been before, but they had changed together. They still fit together, just differently.

Everything that had been there before still was; the lingering touches and the way they looked at each other, quiet prayers in the dark and daydreams of running her fingers through messy, dark-brown curls. Stevie knew that for her, nothing had changed; her love was still strong and raw and painfully, _painfully_ unrequited. But she was still happy, still overjoyed with gratitude that Bucky knew her.

_“How many times a day do I think of you? How many roses are sprinkled with dew?”_

Buck glanced up from her book to smirk at Stevie watching her across the room. Their eyes met and made them both laugh, the happiness of just being near each other making them both giddy; Stevie would never get over how _good_ it felt to have Bucky back.

_“How far would I travel to be where you are? How far is the journey from here to a star?”_

Stevie shut her sketch book, standing and walking over to the desk in the corner of the room to rifle through the drawers. She pulled out a water bottle and opened it, taking a swig and snapping her fingers to the beat of the song. She leaned over and turned up the volume on the little portable speaker Bucky had surprised her with once Stevie had shown her the MP3 player Antonia had gotten for her months ago.

 _“And if I ever lost you how much would I cry?_ _How deep is the ocean? How high is the sky?”_

Stevie whistled along to the tune, and then walked over to Bucky's side of the room, hand extended. “May I have this dance, Sarge?”

Bucky grinned. “Why, _Captain._ You are makin’ me blush!”

“Aw, I couldn't help it _Sargent_ , been waitin’ all night to score a dance with the prettiest beau on the floor.”

“Oh, _Captain_ , you don't mean that. There's lots more handsome gents in the room. I'm probably the plainest.”

“Absolutely not.” Stevie grabbed Bucky's hand and yanked her up, knocking her book to the ground, “Now show me what you know how to do, _Sargent_.”

They jitterbugged and big-appled and jazzed all around each other, laughing and smacking each other and stomping on each other's feet, breathless and close and touching, touching, _touching_ way too many much.

_“How deep is the ocean? How much will I cry? How high is the sky?”_

1943

Bucky was in her third hour of staring at the roof of the tent and listening to Steve breathe.

“Steve.” She murmured, “Hey. Punk. _Steve._ ”

Steve inhaled sharply, “Buck? You ok?” Her voice was clogged with sleep, her eyes probably not even open.

“Come over here.”

“Why, Buck? What's wrong?”

 _You're too far away,_ amadán _._ “I can't sleep.”

She heard the sound of blankets moving, and then suddenly Stevie was next to her. “Move over _tóin_.” Bucky scooted further into the sleeping pack, making space for Stevie to press her front against Bucky's back.

Steve was hotter than an _oven_ , runnin’ a fever at all times. It didn't really effect much, until it was the middle of the night in the Alps and Bucky was freezing her _tits_ off. Bucky wiggled back into Steve's chest, feeling the blonde laugh quietly and wrap and arm around Bucky's middle. Bucky finally felt like she could relax, all pressed up against Steve; made her feel like they were back at home instead of—

Steve snuffled into the back of Bucky's neck, her breath warm, if a little ripe. “Go to sleep, Buck.” She whispered in Bucky's ear, “Whatever you're worrying about will wait. Just clear your head, jerk. It'll keep ‘til morning.”

Bucky shifted, rolling her shoulders and pressing herself closer to Steve. “Had a nightmare.” Steve made a soft noise of commiseration. “Why didn't you tell me? You wanna talk about it? That always helps me, talking about it.” Bucky thought about the nightmare. “Nah, I'm alright, champ. Just needed to feel something solid, help me ground myself.” She squeezed the arm Steve had wrapped around her middle. Steve nodded into her neck, holding her a little tighter. “Alright, Buck. You just go to sleep, _mo chuisle_. I got your six.”

Bucky sighed and closed her eyes, pretending to even out her breathing like she was falling asleep. Steve, of course, fell for it, and was drooling and snoring into Bucky's neck within minutes. Bucky thought about the kind of nightmare Steve thought she had had.

Then she thought about the _real_ nightmare.

_Steve was standing in front of the mirror wearing her dress uniform, broad shoulders wrapped up snug and perfect in her dark, olive-green jacket. Her hair was brushed and clean and braided back intricately, gleaming and beautiful._

_Steve stared at herself in the mirror, messing with her jacket for a moment, then turned around to face Bucky. She looked nervous. “Buck? How do I look?”_

_Beautiful. “You'll do. You ready, champ?”_

_Steve sighed, looking at the floor. “I—yeah. Yeah I think I am.” She chewed on her lip._

_“What?”_

_“I just.” She wrung her hands, “I just feel like I'm making a mistake. Am I making a mistake, Buck? Marrying Peggy?”_

_Bucky's heart was in her throat. This was her moment. This was her time. All she had to say was ‘Yes. You're making a mistake. Don't marry him. I love you.’ And that would be it, they would be free._

_Bucky opened her mouth to speak, but the room was silent. She tried again, but still, dead quiet. Bucky tried to scream,_ nothing _. She looked desperately at Steve, who was staring at her calmly, and clawed at her throat with her mouth open._ “I love you.” _She tried to yell_ “I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you.”

_Steve's face was stoic, and she nodded. Her disappointment and sadness were clear. “I better go, my husband is waiting.” Suddenly Peggy Carter was in the room, wearing his smart little suit with its’ lurid, red bow-tie. He looked different than he did in real life; smugger. His strong hand reached out and took Steve's; they were wearing matching rings._

_Steve smiled at Peggy, pulling him close and slotting her mouth agai—_

Bucky shut her eyes tight and resisted the urge to pull away from the warm cocoon of Steve behind her. She picked up the arm Steve had wrapped around her and pressed her lips to the palm, holding it to her cheek. She could feel Steve smiling into her neck.

Bucky didn't have nightmares about Azzano.

The weeks she had spent strapped to that bed while she was poked and prodded, stabbed and electrocuted, ripped apart and sewn back together, had been real. They had been real and terrible and Bucky didn't think she would ever be able to talk about it aloud ever again (except maybe to Steve, because honestly _Dia atá a fhios_ what Bucky _wouldn't_ do if Steve asked), but they didn't frighten her as much as they did before. She had already been a prisoner of war. She had already been a science experiment. She had already been a broken girl on a table only good for being tortured. She had been all of those things, so they didn't seem as frightening.

One thing she had never felt was watching Steve leave her.

She knew it was going to happen. She could feel it in her heart, she could see it in the way they looked at each other, and the worst was that she couldn't even be mad. She couldn't be jealous of him, she couldn't say that he wasn't good enough, because he was. If anyone was ever going to be good enough for Steve, it would be Peggy Carter.

Slowly, quietly, tears began to flow down her face. Her shoulders shook and she covered her mouth so no sound would come out of her mouth _just like the dream, screaming silently while you watched her walk into someone else's arms._

Steve shifted behind her, waking up when she felt Bucky moving, and sighed. “Aw, _Bucky_. Roll over, Buck. C’mere.” Bucky spun inside the circle of Steve's arms, rolling over so that their chests were pressed together. Steve guided Bucky's face to tuck into her shoulder and Bucky shut her eyes and sobbed there, clutching at Steve's back.

Steve sighed and pulled Bucky as close as she could. “Hush, _mo_ _chuisle_. Shhh, _leanbh_ , _mo beag_ _amháin_.” And Bucky choked, listening to the things that Steve's father had whispered to her when she was sick, one of the million times when they thought she was about to die, because the past was the only comfort they knew how to give each other. The only comfort Bucky could understand.

So she cried in Steve's shoulder, soothed by sleepy Irish murmuring, and prayed for the first time since they had put Steve's Daddy in the ground.

 _O Deus, Pater noster caelestis, acquiesce consiliis meis periculis._ Give her my life. Give her my chance. Let her live, and I will die happy. Give her happiness, she deserves it. She deserves the world. _Confiteor tibi, Pater. Omnia in nomine Iesu Christi precor. Amen_.

2016

Brock Rumlow stood at the front of the front of the Strike Team, hand raised for quiet as he reached into the secret panel behind the rocks and typed in the keypad, causing the door to open slowly.

“We have the element of surprise, because they're so far down that they won't be able to hear us, and they won't be able to run. They're both fast, smart, and brutal. This isn't what you've read in the comic books, people. They'll fight to the death.”

They slowly advanced down the threshold, reaching the door and swiftly taking the stairs. They entered another hallway, the one that contained the first level of bunks, and turned straight into the first room, the one where Rogers and The Asset had been photographed together and found—

***

Bucky leaned back in the driver’s seat, cracking her neck and rolling her metal shoulder to adjust the position of the metal grooves that made up the arm. Steve shifted her grip on Bucky's hand, not letting go, but gentling it a little. “Does it hurt?”

Bucky thought about it. “Nah, champ. Hurt like _hell_ when they first put it on, and learning how to use it wasn't fun, but now I can't feel much of where it's connected. Doesn't hurt because most of the nerves are fried.”

Steve looked horrified. “ _Fried_? How?”

“Maintenance. They hypothesized that the prosthesis would be more functional if The Asset experienced less sensitivity at the point of attachment.” Bucky cleared her throat, “They were correct.”

“ _Mo Dia_ , Buck I'm so—”

“Can it.” Bucky said sadly, exhaustedly, but not without affection, “Not having that argument again. Gets us nowhere.” Steve sighed and kept examining the arm, running her fingers over the grooves and plating, the barely-there brush of her fingers making shivers race up and down Bucky’s spine. “I’m still sorry it happened, Buck. I’m still sorry that I did nothing while it happened.”

“You were a little busy, champ. I know you weren’t bein’ _cold_ or nothin’.” They smirked at each other, ease of joking about things they shouldn’t be returning to their relationship. Steve pushed Bucky’s sleeve up the arm and—

 _Your arm, champ. Not_ the _arm,_ your _arm_.

Acknowledged.

They’d been on the road for about two hours, the surveillance system alert had gone off yesterday, letting her know that HYDRA had tried to watch them through the cameras in the bunker, so this morning she and Steve had packed up and been on the road within minutes. Bucky was glad The Asset was paranoid; it had worked in their favor. She glanced over at Steve again, watching her pouty little mouth scrunched to the side as she concentrated, examining the— _Bucky’s_ —arm. Bucky felt her eyes crinkle up as she smiled; she remembered that look, Steve was planning a drawing in her head.

The Asset was—Bucky had been—would always be—

 _In love_ seemed so infantile, so immature and weak. Bucky wasn’t _in love_ with Steve; Steve was everything. The sun rose and set with Steve, existed only because of Steve, Steve made the world turn.

She looked at Steve once more, watched how the AC made the little dark blonde flyaways curl and float around the halo of her face, how her eyes, the darkest, deepest of blues were so easy to get lost in, how her skin was tanner than it had ever been before, strong and warm and tan with blue eyes and broad shoulders, the most American beauty anyone could ever be. And Bucky thought about the way her own body looked now; sallow and beaten and scarred and not even entirely _human_ —

Her hands, which had held bombs and guns and knives; that had ripped apart families, murdered children, started and ended wars, _destroyed_ so many lives—

Bucky turned her eyes back to the road, feeling Steve pull her hand a little as she laid back in the passenger seat and feeling a sickening combination of incredible gratitude and helpless unworthiness.

***

“Steve. We’re here.”

Stevie opened her eyes and sat up in the seat. Bucky was standing outside the tan car they’d stolen two days ago holding their bags. She groaned as she sat up, stretching her back out; cramped from being curled up in the seat for so long. Stevie stood up and held a hand out toward Buck, gesturing for her to hand her one of the bags. Buck shook her head and backed away from Stevie’s hand, nodding toward the end of the city block they were parked on. As soon as Stevie stepped away from the car, Buck began walking down the sidewalk, not turning back to see if Stevie was following.

Buck walked quickly, head bent down and hood up, and Stevie copied her reflexively, tucking her blonde braid into the gray hoodie they’d gotten at the last stop they’d taken. The brunette turned at the corner, ducking into an alley two buildings down. A lone shed stood at the end of it.

Buck was already standing in front of it, punching in a code and then watching a hidden door slide open. Buck looked back at Stevie and nodded toward the door, walking inside without hesitation. Stevie sighed and jogged down the alley, stepping inside the dark entryway. Buck was standing by the door, waiting silently for Stevie to step inside, then shutting the door behind her.

Buck didn’t say a word, walking away from the front door and through another door that looked no bigger than a closet. It revealed a warehouse, obviously the one built behind the shed. Buck tossed the bags onto the floor, walking further into the large room and stretching out her back with a little grunt. Stevie smiled. Buck turned back to look at Stevie.

“Washroom is over there, down the hall and to the left.” Buck pointed at the door closest to the bags, “I’m gonna set up the surveillance alert and sweep for bugs.” And she immediately went to it, turning away from Stevie and crawling along the edges of the room and tapping the walls.

“I can help, if you—if you need it, I can—” Stevie began, looking at the floor. Buck didn’t stop what she was doing, “Nah, I got it champ. You go wash up and we’ll go grab something to eat when I’m done, ok?” Stevie nodded at Bucky’s back and walked through the door and down the hall to the bathroom.

A few minutes later, after she had splashed some water on her face and sternly reprimanded her reflection in the dingy mirror to ‘grow the _foc_ up _leathcheann_ , you have no reason to be hurt or upset’ she walked back into the main room.

Stevie was tired.

It had been a week and a handful of days since Buck had come back to herself, and the more time passed the more she seemed to remember, and the less she seemed to want to be around Stevie. Their conversations now were short and tense, they barely touched (Buck stopped leaving her hand on the gear shift a few days ago, and the one time Stevie had tried to reach for her hand  Bucky had jerkily moved it away.) Stevie knew it was her fault. She had pushed too hard and gone too fast and Bucky was barely used to knowing that she was a person let alone being treated like one, how could Stevie have expected that Buck would be comfortable around her? that she would be ready to be touched and talked to like nothing had changed? Stevie didn’t even _dare_ think of a different reason why Buck would be uncomfortable around her, that she had seen things she hadn’t been able to before…

Buck had opened the duffle and pulled out the sleeping bags Stevie had insisted they get a stop or two ago after a having to sleep behind a row of dumpsters because Buck was too scared to sleep in a motel. Stevie walked over to Buck, wringing her hands. She leaned down and began helping unpack, trying not to take it too personally when Bucky subtly moved in the opposite direction before their arms could brush. She quickly had their clothes out and folded, picking out two shirts that had she would toss at her first opportunity because of the holes in the sleeve where they got caught in Buck’s arm. She sat back on her feet and turned toward Buck. “Ready?”

Bucky nodded and stood, turning and walking toward the front door, pulling up her hood as she went. Stevie watched her back for a second, swallowing her childish hurt, and followed.

***

Brock Rumlow was getting close to his wits end.

Pierce had been ringing him non-stop, badgering him about updates and the like, and Brock has had nothing to say to him because despite being the leader of one of the most prominent and advanced teams in all of HYDRA, they have _no fucking leads_.

They’d tracked Rogers and The Asset to every single site that they had been in, only to find them already gone. And Brock was fucking tired of it.

He leaned over the table and pointed at the third of the next six possible locations Rogers and The Asset might be traveling too. “This is the least likely. So I say, we head there, set a trap, and wait. They should be there within a few days if they haven’t been there already. And we’ll _keep_ fucking trying until we have our property back with its’ matching pair.” He looked at each and every single one of the men in the room around him, “Understood?”

***

Bucky should have known something was wrong when her passcodes didn’t stop working.

HYDRA had been tracking them for weeks; Bucky knew this and was not panicked. She was faster than them, smarter than them, and more desperate to keep herself and Steve safe than HYDRA was to have The Asset back under their control. She wouldn’t let them hurt Steve. She would kill every single HYDRA officer and bring the whole system down single-handedly before she would let them touch one dark-blonde hair.

_Ironic._

Acknowledged.

Bucky grabbed the next STRIKE agent and threw him at a wall, definitely breaking several of his ribs. She reached for the shoulder of the next one and snapped his neck, letting him drop from her hands with a _thump_. She glanced over at Steve, who had dropped three agents and was working on a fourth. Bucky knew there was no way they were getting out of this, the amount of agents that were pouring into the little basement she had been _stupid_ and _unprepared_ enough to bring Steve to, trying and _failing_ to keep her safe. Now she was about to be dragged into the hell that Bucky hadn’t even fully escaped herself. _Mea culpa,_ mo grá _, mea culpa, mea maxima,_ maxima _culpa._

“Second team, advance!” Came a voice, and then the room flooded with agents again. Steve looked at Bucky across the room, sweaty and dirty because they hadn't been to a place with running water in a few days, blood dripping down from her temple. Their eyes locked, ocean meeting ice, and Steve opened her mouth to say something, reached her hand out into the gap between them, but before she could, an agent stuck her with a prod and she dropped to her knees.

Bucky surged in Steve's direction, furiously trying to get to her, but she was cut off by a blow to the back of her head. Her ears rung, she could feel the blood pounding through her temples, the world blurred and she felt a shock rip up her spine to the crown of her head. She gasped, opening eyes that she forgot when she shut, and reached out in Steve’s direction to find that her arms were pinned behind her back, _handcuffs_ , eyes whirling all over to try and find her face, just one last look, _just—one—more—_

“Soldier?”

Bucky grit her teeth and shook her head. _Bucky._

“Asset?”

Tears burst from her eyes, which were swimming, but she could still barely see Steve, unconscious and locked into cuffs behind her back, eye swollen shut and chin painted scarlet. “No.” _Buck? You ok?_

“Soldier, I am here to take you back into containment. You've been experiencing a minor mental malfunction. It will be ratified shortly, I promise. I know you're in pain.”

But she _wasn't_ in pain. They had lied. They had _lied_ about the pain. Bucky had been waiting for it for days, for the paranoia and shivers, the agony in her skull and frailty in her muscles, but it had never come. Until now.

The pain was coming, Bucky knew, the forgetting, the emptiness, _The Asset._

She screamed, “ _Please,”_ she gasped, “ _please._ ” A man crouched down in front her. She knew his face; a square jaw and strong eyebrows, dark hair cropped short and a thick neck disappearing into his tac gear. “Please what, Soldier? What does a _machine_ beg for?” The room filled with laughter.

Bucky spat blood into the ground, her voice barely louder than a whisper, “Let her go. And I will, _соблюдать_ ,” she gasped again, “I will comply, I will obey, let her go. I will. Please.”

The man smiled, a sick, slow smile. “You don't really have a choice, comrade. She's coming in, and so are you.” He straightened up, “Put her out and pack them up. And someone call the director, tell him we have The Asset _and_ Rogers in containment and en route.” A cheer went up around the room. Bucky felt herself being picked up from her knees, unable to walk because of the cuffs that she realized also were around her ankles, and was carted forward. Halfway out of the building the man pushing her stopped.

She felt a stab to her bicep, and soon after the world went black.

***

Stevie woke up vertical.

Her mouth tasted like metal, _blood,_ and her left eye could barely open. Her bottom lip was definitely split, and she could feel a few broken ribs in the mix as well. The fact that they hadn't healed yet showed that very little time had passed; less than 36 hours.

She looked around the dingy room she was in and rolled her shoulders against the table she was strapped too, twitching each of her limbs in succession to make sure she could move them. The room was small, at most 24 square feet, barely lit and lined with dirty white tile. There was a side table and chair five of six feet ahead of Stevie, pointed in her direction and uninhabited. A door slammed, and Stevie watched as a mid-size, older man walked into the room.

He had watery blue eyes and he was slightly tanned, wrinkles sharply carved into his cheeks and at the corners of his eyes. He sat in the chair, holding a handful of files that he gently placed onto the table next to him. He leaned forward, looking at Stevie, and placed his hands on his knees.

Stevie lifted her chin, and stared above his head. She knew who this man had to be, and she had a good idea of what he would want. She wasn't going to give it to him.

“Captain Rogers. It's an honor to meet you.”

Stevie stared at her point on the wall, and kept her eyes firmly on it.

“I am Alexander Pierce, Head of HYDRA, although I suppose you already knew that, considering who you were traveling with.”

Stevie said nothing, eyes locked to the wall.

***

Alexander Pierce leaned back in the chair, crossing his ankles. He watched the proud Captain America, one of humanities greatest ‘heroes’, lauded for destroying HYDRA, reduced to a battered little girl, strapped to a table and staring at the wall like a punished child. Alexander opened the first file in his hand, flipping through the pictures inside.

“Life is full of choices, Captain.” He continued to flip through the pictures, aiming to aggravate, “Or, it seems like it is.” He glanced up at Rogers, “There's really only _one_ choice that wears many different masks. Do you know what that choice is, Captain?” Silence. “Compliance or Disobedience. That is the choice we all must make.” Alexander raised an eyebrow; Rogers’ face was expressionless, “That is the choice that is before you today. I will give you three chances. Just three. Each time, I will make it harder for you to say no.” He smiled, calmly, “You don't want to make me ask you a fourth time. Am I understood?” Again, Rogers said nothing. Alexander nodded to himself, and stood. He clapped his hands together, twice; the door opened.

Rumlow walked inside, a cattle prod in each hand. He positioned himself behind Rogers.

“I ask you again, Captain, am I understood?” She was silent. Alexander nodded.

Rumlow stabbed the left prod, then the right in quick succession. Rogers’ back arched harshly, and her breath came out in desperate little pants.

“Captain? Anything to say?” Rogers grit her teeth and continued to stare a hole into the wall. Alexander nodded again. Rumlow pressed both prods to Rogers’ body at the same time.

She screamed, back curving harsher and eyes rolling back into her head, tears rolling down her face. Rumlow pulled them off, and her body relaxed, a sob breaking out of her throat as her head dropped toward the floor. Alexander leaned down to meet her eye, “Captain, please don't make me ask a fourth time. I really, really don't want to reciprocate.” Rogers glared at Alexander, and spat in his direction. Alexander sighed and straightened up. He nodded to Rumlow, who stepped away from Rogers and walked back out of the room.

***

Stevie felt the drool dripping from between her lips, and her skull pounded. She couldn’t pick her head up from where it was directed at the floor, and she could see that someone had taken her shoes. Where were her shoes? She could faintly hear the door opening again, the sound of feet on the tile floor. Alexander Pierce walked right up next to the table she was on, and picked up her head, turning it toward the center of the room.

Bucky was held up between two different agents, her metal arm was at an odd angle and her mouth was slack, but her eyes were wide open. Stevie flexed her arms, testing the straps on the table again and met Buck’s line of sight; she looked terrified. Alexander leaned close to Stevie and whispered in her ear, “She’s paralyzed, Captain. We gave her a sedative a few minutes ago and she will be unable to move for at least 24 hours.” He breathed a chuckle into Stevie’s ear, “How much of that 24 hours she spends in pain will depend upon your cooperation.” Stevie shook her head violently until he took his hand off her, tongue too big in her mouth for her to do anything but babble incoherently.

Alexander walked forward to stand to side of Buck, still giving Stevie a full view of the abject fear all over her face. He raised his hand, stroking down her cheek with a single finger and Stevie bit back a scream of rage. Alexander yanked the bulk of Bucky’s hair upward, waving at the men holding her up to let go so that all of Bucky’s weight was being held up by her hair. Alexander reached a hand out to Rumlow, who handed him the prod that he had stuck Stevie with barely a moment before. Alexander looked up at Stevie, looking her in the eye as he pressed the tip of the prod to Bucky’s temple.

Stevie’s blood ran cold as she watched Bucky’s eyes bulge out of her head, her metal arm twitching as shocks coursed through her body. Stevie’s arms pushed against the straps harder, throwing all of her body weight forward pointlessly. “Stop!” she screamed, “Stop, _please_ you son of a _bitch_ let her go!” She fought with the straps fruitlessly, vision clouded with tears. Alexander pointed the prod away from Bucky’s head and released his hold on her hair, watching her drop to the ground with a _thump_.

Alexander walked forward again slowly, put a hand under Stevie’s chin, and tipped her head up to meet his eyes. Stevie thrashed under the straps, spitting and gasping for breath.

“Calm down, Captain.” Stevie saw red, but she swallowed the anger, pushed it down. _Gotta keep a cool head, Steve. Get too hot in a fight and you can’t think straight, gotta keep cool._

Alexander smiled, “That’s better. I told you I didn’t want to ask you a fourth time, Captain.” He glanced behind him at the unmoving pile of limbs that was Bucky, “But you gave me no option. You took my Asset, you deprogrammed her, and you were being resistant. I told you Captain, we all have two choices; compliance or disobedience. You made the choice to be disobedient four times,” he raised his eyebrows, “What is your choice now, Captain?”

Stevie looked at Bucky’s body, curled in an unmoving pile of limbs on the ground. She thought about her selfishness. Her foolishness. Her naivety from mere hours ago that she and Buck were safe, that they were going to be okay, that they had a chance, _finally_. She grit her teeth and felt tears fall down her face.

“I’ll do whatever you,” she choked down a sob, “ask.”

***

Antonia Stark searched through her records again, a third, fourth, and fifth time before she allowed herself to panic.

She had been subtly tracking Rogers and Barnes since they left. She wasn’t surprised when the trackers she had had put in their clothes were disposed of within the first few hours; she knew Barnes wasn’t an idiot. She had been relying on a combination of stolen car reports and Rogers’ credit card withdrawals to roughly follow them on their path away from New York. The longest they had ever gone without taking out cash or stealing a car was a day and a half; it had been four days.

Tony picked up her phone and called Sam, who answered on the second ring, “Yeah?”

“I think something happened to them. We have to find them, Sam, I don’t know what to—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Tony. What are you talking about? Stevie and Barnes? They’re fine. You said they were out in Arizona yesterday.”

“No,” Tony stressed, “I said they were in Arizona _three_ days ago. I haven’t had any leads or reports on them for _three_ days. I’m—” she sighed, “I’m worried, Sam. We weren’t watching closely enough. Something happened to them, I’m sure of it.”

“Okay.” Sam said slowly, “So we gather up, research, and we come up with a plan to get them back.”

“Yeah.” Tony said, looking up to see Bruce stalking into the room, face scrunched up in worry, “We better hurry, Sam. I have a really _bad_ feeling about this.”

***

“So it’s definitely HYDRA,” Sam said seriously, leaning forward onto the table.

Tony nodded, her face drawn and frightened, “Yeah. We’re sure.”

Natalia remained silent, curled up in the corner of the room beside Clint, who was compulsively running her fingers through the feathers on her arrows. Natalia watched each and every face around the room, searching for indecision or signs of cowardice among the Avengers; unsurprisingly, she found none. _Дураки._

Natalia knew what was happening to Barnes and Stevie right now. Barnes had been already conditioned; a few weeks out of containment would change nothing in decades of iron-clad discipline and expectations of compliance. Stevie, on the other hand…

She remembered the feeling. Like she didn’t know what was real, like she didn’t understand the difference between kindness and cruelty, pain and gentleness, safety and fear.

The other Avengers continued to talk about the location at which Stevie and Barnes were most likely being held; seeing as it was the only warehouse HYDRA contained that was large enough to contain two super-soldiers and the man power needed to keep them in check. Natalia looked over at Clint, eyes wary. Clint raised an eyebrow. _Alright?_

Natalia nodded, and shrugged. _Fine. Worried._ Clint nodded, and tipped her head toward the rest of the room, in which the other Avengers were bickering and planning. _We all are._

***

The Asset, Bucky, Jane Becca Barnes, could hear music.

“ _I hear music when I look at you_.”

The Jane, Asset, Bucky Barnes was in the chair, and she could hear music.

“ _A beautiful theme of every dream I ever knew, down deep in my heart I hear it play, I can feel it start, then it melts away_.”

The song was modern, not one she had ever danced to, but she wanted to. _Mo Dia_ , did she want to. And she imagined Steve’s face if she could ever hear it, _Steve_. A tear bubbled up to her eye, _Oh, Steve._

“ _Why can't I let you know the song my heart would sing?_ ”

“Soldier, are you awake?”

Jane Becca, Bucky, let her head roll around on her shoulders toward the voice. _The Handler_. Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth. “I ain’t no soldier, honey. Imma Sergeant.” She licked her lips, “Jane Becca Barnes, Sergeant, 54967843.” She laughed, and it echoed all over the room; she liked the sound, even though it hurt her ears. “Ruuuuule Britannia, marmalade or jam!” she sang, loudly and off-key, “Chinese firecrackers up your arseholllllllllle,” she paused, “Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!” she cackled again, voice raucously bouncing off the walls.

The Handler stood before her, face hard as stone. He crouched lower to meet her eyes. “Soldier, eyes forward. Are you functional?”

Buck thought about it. Functional. She thought it meant being able to function; the ability to be pleasing and perfunctory and compliant to The Handler. But what if that wasn’t the point? What if the point wasn’t to be able to submit to someone else, but to be able to control oneself? If that was what it meant, then The Asset had never been fully functional at all.

She looked right into the handler’s eyes, and opened her mouth to sing, “‘Beautiful rhapsody of love and youth and spring, the music is sweet, and the words are true…’” _Mo grá, my Steve, I focáil love you, mo chailín is fearr._ “The song—” The Handler smacked her across the face.

Bucky felt blood slick in between her teeth, and turned her head to the side to spit out onto the floor next to The Chair. She knew they would turn it on any second, and she would lose it all again. The difference was, this time, she knew she could get it back. And she was not afraid.

The Handler opened his mouth to speak, but he shut it when the whole room began to shake, and yelling resounded down the hall outside the door.

The Handler turned away from Bucky and looked over to the door, which dented inward with a _bang_ , then flew off its hinges revealing a battered, bloody, and _blindingly furious_ Stephanie Grace Rogers, holding her star-spangled shield, exactly like Bucky remembered it.

The Handler jumped to his feet, and sprinted away from Steve, who whipped out her shield to catch him in the back of the neck and knocked him to the ground. Steve jogged over to The Chair, eyes frantic as she looked over Bucky’s face—

1942

“—Buck? Buck, are you— _Íosa Críost_ , are you—”

“Steve? You’re—Steve?”

“I thought you were dead.”

“I thought you were smaller.”

2016

Stevie broke the restraints off one by one with the shield and pulled Buck into her arms, just for a second.

Tony had broken into her cell and given her the shield less than twenty minutes ago, telling her only to “Get Barnes, and _go_. We have everything covered, just get to the jet and get out of here.” She didn’t know exactly what was going on but the mini-Jarvis earpiece Tony had shoved into her ear was telling her to head down the hall, up two flights of stairs, down another hall, out the front door, and fifty yards out to the trees to reach the plane. She pulled Buck back by the shoulders to look her over, and finding her in running shape, looked up at her to tell her the plan and—

1942

—Bucky wanted to kiss her. She looked strange, no doubt, a familiar face that was pulled and stretched over the body of a stranger, but the face was hers. The voice was hers. The hands, pulling her out of hell and into the daylight, down corridor after corridor and hall after hall, were hers too. This was her Steve, her best girl, _mo chailín is fearr_ , I love you I love you I love you—

2016

—Bucky grabbed Steve around the neck and kissed her on the mouth. Steve inhaled sharply, startled, and dropped the shield on the ground to wind her hands up in Bucky’s hair.

And the whole world seemed to freeze around them; Bucky couldn’t hear the victorious shouts of the Avengers or metal bending and hissing, couldn’t see the smoke or flashing lights drifting in from the hall, couldn’t smell the blood or ash permeating the air. All that existed was Steve, Steve’s strong shoulders under her hands, Steve’s lips opening up to her own, Steve’s steady heartbeat pounding against her chest.

It was the first time Bucky felt whole in all her life.

Only when a piece of ceiling fell and flooded the room with dust did they finally break apart. Steve was flushed, eyes bright and beautiful and face still covered drying blood. They made eye contact for a moment, then broke out laughing, so hard they could barely breathe.

Steve held out a hand, eyes shining, “C’mon. We gotta go, _mo chuisle_.”

Bucky took the hand, smiled back just as warmly, “Lead the way, _mo grá_.”

***

They followed Jarvis out of the bunker into the fresh air, it was just past dusk. Stevie pulled Buck toward the jet, jogging inside and collapsing onto the floor. Jarvis immediately made the plane take off, explaining that there was a second escape jet close by that would get the others after they had gotten everything they needed from the bunker they had been held in. Stevie didn’t pay too close attention.

They were curled up on the floor together, brooding over each other’s injuries and smacking each other playfully. Buck took the wet cloth Stevie had gotten from the bathroom in the back of the jet, gently dabbing at the burn wound she had at her temple and wincing slightly. Stevie tipped Buck’s head up so she could look at the burn, gently tucking a matted curl behind her ear so she could see it better. Buck met her gaze and smiled, soft and sweet and private, and pressed her forehead against Stevie’s, closing her eyes. Stevie shuffled back to lean against the wall, tucking Buck into her arms and guiding Buck to rest her cheek on Stevie’s collarbone.

Stevie pressed her lips to Buck’s hair and held her as tightly as her bruised ribs would allow.

“I love you.” She whispered, fingers gently running up and down Buck’s back.

“ _Tá mé i ngrá leat freisin_.” Buck replied.

***

Bucky breathed in the smell of Steve’s skin, felt the steady pound of her heart against her cheek, and closed her eyes.

_I hear music when I touch your hand, a beautiful melody from some enchanted land, down deep in my heart, I hear it say, “Is this the day?”_

_I alone have heard this lovely strain, I alone have heard this glad refrain, must it be forever inside of me? Why can't I let it go? Why can't I let you know?_

_Why can't I let you know the song my heart would sing? Beautiful rhapsody of love and youth and spring, the music is sweet, and the words are true…_

_The song is you._

_The song is you._


	2. References

[Fic title](http://www.azlyrics.com/lyrics/franksinatra/thesongisyou.html)

[Top Love Songs of the 1930s](http://musiced.about.com/od/valentinesda1/tp/1930slovesongs.htm)

[Top Love Songs of the 1940s](http://musiced.about.com/od/valentinesda1/tp/1940slovesongs.htm)

[1930's Dances](http://dancetimepublications.com/resources/social-dance-timeline/1930s-dance-marathon-movie-musical-big-apple-jitterbug/)

[1930's Fashion](http://www.retrowaste.com/1930s/fashion-in-the-1930s/)

[War Songs of WWII](http://www.westernfrontassociation.com/great-war-people/brothers-arms/372-songs-war.html#sthash.LIXHdpRU.dpbs)


End file.
